


The Limits of Denial

by gypsygrrl420



Category: Bleach
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Gags, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Kensei is an Idiot, Kensei's Hollow is a Shit, Kisuke is Awesome, Like LOTS of angst, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rope Bondage, Sex Talk, Shuuhei isn't Much Better, So is Kensei's Zanpakutou, The Vizards Like to Tease Shuuhei
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gypsygrrl420/pseuds/gypsygrrl420
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter War is over and Kensei is back leading the 9th. For six months he's been denying his desire, but finally has to admit that his attempts have been futile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Denial Stops Working

Catching his attention wandering to the empty desk across the room for what seemed like the hundredth time since his fukutaicho had left for the Real World, Kensei was finally forced to acknowledge the truth that he had tried burying deep inside him almost six months ago—he wanted the kid.  
  
So much so that he had sent him off to Karakura town on the flimsiest of pretexts, figuring that if he couldn’t see the kid, he wouldn’t be tempted, and maybe he would be able to banish each and every base desire Hisagi Shuuhei had ignited within him from the very first moment he had laid eyes on his lithe, bloodstained figure standing across the battlefield, the Vizard’s brand etched clearly on his face for all to see. The Hollow inside him had immediately surged upwards with the need to lay claim, and only the heat of battle had been able to prevent him from stalking up to his rightful prey and taking what he wanted.  
  
After the last battle had been fought and Soul Society had found themselves the victors of the War, old man Yamamoto had astonished them all when he’d offered the Visoreds their old positions among the Gotei 13, and Kensei had discovered that the dark-haired shinigami that had captured both his and his Hollow’s attention was not only the fukutaicho of his old division, but the kid he had saved more than a century before. Those dark eyes had haunted his memories for decades, the last good memory he had of Soul Society before Aizen had shown his true colors and his 5th seat had stabbed him in the back, and the combination of that gaze—dry and world-weary in a way they had not been a century before—and the mark on his cheek symbolizing the admiration and gratitude he held for the man Kensei no longer was had made the Vizard ruthlessly lock away his desire.  
  
Unfortunately, desire was a slippery thing and not so easily subdued.  
  
It slipped through chinks in its prison, sending tendrils of warm, rolling want through him at the slightest provocation: the spare elegance of his fukutaicho training with members of the division, lithe form moving fluidly as he sparred with new recruits and seated officers alike; the husky rasp of a voice damaged by a near fatal blow to the throat during the War, inquiring politely if his taicho would like some tea; the trio of scars running down the right side of his face that was a constant reminder of the friends he had lost and the three that had saved him, a mark of remembrance and devotion just as powerful as the bold black lines stamped across his left cheekbone. He ignored each and every one of these attributes, forcing himself to think of other faces and other bodies when he lay in his empty bed at night, hand wrapped securely around his cock and stroking himself to completion so he might sleep without dreaming of the man the boy had grown into. And it had been working, more or less, until suddenly it wasn’t, and with a sense of desperation previously unknown to him, he had sent his fukutaicho to the Real World, hoping that he would be able to get a grip upon his unruly desire before he simply dragged the kid off and fucked him into the nearest hard surface.  
  
He swore aloud this time when he realized his gaze had slid to the desk yet again, but this time he didn’t force his attention elsewhere. For the first time in six months he allowed his thoughts free rein, allowed himself to dwell on Hisagi Shuuhei and everything he was, allowed the desire—the hot, unrestrained desire that his fukutaicho roused in him—to spill forth. His cock grew hard as the images flooded his brain: shaggy dark hair framing a face that was all sharp lines and clean planes, strong instead of pretty; dark eyes that weren’t quite black but a rich, deep green that sometimes appeared to be dark gray in the right light, eyes that were not at all like that idiot former taicho Urahara’s grey-green.  
  
Closing his own eyes, Kensei imagined how that sun-kissed pale skin would feel beneath his callused hands, imagined the sleek lines of that lithe form laid out before him, imagined how it would feel to bury himself as deeply as possibly inside his fukutaicho and have those long legs wrapped securely about his hips as he rode them both into oblivion. Fingers making short work of his hakama, uncaring that he was seated in his office—no one would enter without knocking—he wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking himself with long, slow pulls as the images unfurled in his mind.  
  
After having restrained himself for so long, Kensei felt his orgasm coming all too quickly, but he didn’t try to delay it. Spreading his legs a bit more, head tipping back against his chair, he sped up his strokes, imagining the bite of strong, calloused fingers digging into the heavy muscles of his back, panting breaths fanning his neck as his phantom lover clung to him tightly, and he bit his lip hard to hold back a shout as orgasm swept over him.  
  
It went on for what seemed like minutes, spilling across his hand thickly, and he slowed his still stroking fingers to milk the last few drops, slumping back in his chair as the aftershocks of pleasure continued to tingle through him. He hadn’t cum so hard in ages—certainly not since he rejoined Soul Society and denied himself from pursuing his fukutaicho. Eyeing the mess he had made, he fruitlessly searched his desk for some tissues, then shrugged and lifted his hand to his mouth, licking away the glistening white seed staining his fingers and leather gloves. Thankfully, his white Captain’s haori would cover the rest of the stains well enough for him to make the short trip to his quarters, and once there he would change and pack for a trip to Karakura. His fukutaicho might not look at him as anything other than a respected superior officer and the man who had once saved his life, but Kensei would never know if he simply sat back and did nothing. If his desire was one-sided—well, it wouldn’t be the first time, and he had dealt with it in the past and moved on. He tried not to listen to the little voice in his head—his Hollow’s voice—telling him that this time it was different, that Hisagi was different, that he should simply go and take what they both wanted so badly, but he shut it up with the ease of long practice. He had never once forced himself on someone and he wasn’t about to start now; if the younger man wasn’t interested he would have to let it go, find a way to bury all that want—need—and move on, just like he’d done every other time.  
  
Rising from his seat, Kensei tucked his haori more securely around his broad frame to hide any stains and left his office.


	2. Uncomfortable Revelations

Heading back to the shouten as twilight settled over a peaceful Karakura, Shuuhei was forced to confront the fact that maybe he had done something to annoy his taicho.  
  
He’d been quietly pleased when his captain had handed him the assignment to the Real World, stressing the importance of collecting intelligence and liaising with the newly created “special” division Yamamoto Soutaicho had created after the War, and he had stepped through the Senkaimon five days ago determined not to fuck things up. He was being entrusted with this mission, which must be important indeed if Taicho was sending his second instead of one of the lower seated officers. He had presented himself at Urahara-san’s shop as directed, not the least bit surprised to discover that the wily ex-captain turned shopkeeper had been expecting him—the blond had eyes and ears everywhere. He’d been offered a room furnished quite simply but eminently suitable for his needs, and dinner had been a pleasant affair, allowing him to relax while listening to the shopkeeper gossip about the daily happenings around town—all of which Shuuhei had filed away for his report. All in all, everything had been quite pleasant and he had been looking forward to his assignment—up until he had risen the next morning and sought out the Visoreds in their warehouse to begin his work.  
  
After the first two hours in their company, Shuuhei had felt the beginnings of a headache coming on, but he had persevered. After another hour spent listening to Shinji and Hiyori bickering—the diminutive ex-fukutaicho smacking the blond around the head with one of her sandals after he’d made some thoughtless, asinine comment—Mashiro had plopped herself down next to him, brandishing, of all things, a handful of hair clips and a wide, wide smile that had boded ill for the dark-haired shinigami. Shuuhei knew his hair had been getting rather long of late—he hadn’t had any time to get it cut during the past eighteen months—but this? This had been a bit too much. Still, it would have been undignified to flee the warehouse because of such a small thing—and Mashiro-san, he had discovered, might be cute as a button, but she was frighteningly similar to the pink-haired Vice Captain of the 11th division when it came to getting what she wanted. And apparently, she had wanted to play with his hair. Thinking that this was all a test, he had sat there and allowed it, feeling like an absolute fool the entire time. He figured that if he sat there long enough they would get down to business, but after another three hours had passed and the Visoreds had continued to ignore him—with the notable exception of the small green-haired woman who was slowly driving him insane, he had abruptly stood up and excused himself, trying not to make it appear that he was running away. The burst of laughter following his rather undignified exit had made his ears burn and his normally even temper flare, and he had spent the remainder of the day prowling the town in search of some Hollows to cleanse. He had hoped that the next day would be more productive, but it had been more of the same, only this time his patience had worn thin a great deal faster. Four days later he hadn’t even lasted an hour among the Visoreds, and he was dead certain now that his taicho was punishing him for something—though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he had done to deserve this.  
  
Arriving back at his temporary home, he let himself in, toeing his waraji off at the door and grimacing when he realized that he was in desperate need of a bath. His nightly patrol around the town—his only outlet for his current frustrations—had netted him three Hollows, two of which had been easily dispatched, but the third had been big, and nasty, and he’d been flung through a wall before he was able to cleave its mask in two. He was sweaty, bloody, and covered head to toe in dust and dirt. Right now he just wanted a bath and some time to himself.  
  
He had told the shopkeeper that he probably wouldn’t be back for dinner, and indeed, it was long past the dinner hour. His nightly patrol, as his frustrations continued to mount, had been lasting longer and longer with each passing day; he knew this couldn’t go on much longer, but his orders were set for another two weeks and he flatly refused to run back to Soul Society just because things were more difficult than he had thought they would be.  
  
Admit it, you’re just afraid that you’ll piss Taicho off even more if you abandon your mission now. But he wasn’t even certain that his taicho was punishing him…  
  
No? What would you call it then? Certainly you’re just wasting your time here. Maybe he just doesn’t want you around? I mean, you served under the man that stabbed him in the back, had wanted to bring that man back to Soul Society—  
  
Shuuhei, continuing towards his room, stopped dead in the middle of the hall, staring blindly down the corridor. Could that be it? Could this just be Taicho’s way of getting him out of the way so he could find himself a more suitable fukutaicho? One that didn’t carry the taint of association with a known traitor?  
The thought hurt, far more than it should have.  
  
Forcing himself to move so as not to be caught standing in the hall like an idiot—kami only knew what expression he must have been wearing at that moment—he made his way slowly to his room, feeling suddenly dizzy. Of course his taicho had every right to pick another fukutaicho if he wanted, but he had never given any indication that he was unhappy with Shuuhei’s performance. Those first few weeks had seen some rough patches, of course, which was only normal for any transitional period—Shuuhei had grown used to running the division by himself and sometimes had to bite his tongue against issuing orders that were no longer his responsibility to give, and his taicho had grown used to life as a Vizard in the Real World—but they had settled quickly into their respective roles and the division was running more smoothly than ever. If his taicho was a bit distant, well, Shuuhei had merely attributed that to a facet of his captain’s personality—but now he was left to wonder if maybe that distance was quite deliberate on the older man’s part, and directed specifically at him.  
  
Letting himself into his room, he unslung Kazeshini from his back and propped the sword on the stand near his bed before bending to pull off his tabi.   
  
Could he have been that blind?  
  
Making quick work of his sash, he let the length of fabric flutter to the floor, his shihakushou following a moment later. Normally fiendishly neat, he ignored the garment as he scooped up the sleeping yukata lying across the foot of his futon, not even feeling the twinge of protest across his shoulders at the movement, focused solely on the problem at hand. He exited his room, padding silently down the hall in the direction of the bath, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as his thoughts tumbled one over the other in a mad jumble.  
  
If he had been so blind—if his taicho held him at arms’ length not because that was just how he was but because he felt Shuuhei couldn’t be trusted—  
  
Sharp teeth pierced soft flesh hard enough to draw blood, but that slight pain was nothing compared to the ache spreading through his chest at the thought that his captain didn’t trust him.  
  
Shuuhei entered the bathroom, grateful that he hadn’t encountered any of the shouten’s inhabitants during his short trip down the hall, especially the sharp-eyed proprietor himself. Those grey-green eyes saw entirely too much, always watching from the shadows beneath the brim of his hat, at odds with his over-the-top behavior; Shuuhei shuddered at the thought of his chaotic emotions being laid bare before that gaze.  
  
Moving mechanically, he stripped off both hakama and underwear, habit taking over as he bent to pick both up, folding them neatly and laying them on a convenient bench set against the wall, placing his yukata alongside his discarded clothes before he crossed the floor to the large bath tub. Turning both taps on to fill the tub, he stepped away to wash away the blood and sweat and grime he’d accumulated earlier in the evening, hoping to scrub away some of the anxiety rising within him at the same time. Wetting himself down with the handheld shower head, he picked up the bar of soap lying nearby and ran it over his skin, hissing as the lather worked its way into various cuts and scrapes and scratches. But the stinging pain did little to distract him from his thoughts.  
  
Muguruma-taicho—for so long he had thought the man dead. He had etched the man’s mark on his face in remembrance, regretting that he would never be able to thank his savior for his life, the tattoo forever a symbol of all he had wished to be. And then the Vizard had showed up on the battlefield six months ago, and he had discovered that his hero wasn’t dead at all. Hollowfied, yes. An abomination in the eyes of Soul Society—but not in his eyes. Never in his eyes.  
  
Rinsing off, he climbed into the tub and turned off the flow of water, settling back against the smooth rim to soak away the physical aches of his body while the one inside his chest grew.  
  
He had gaped up at the man from his position on the ground, hardly believing his eyes as he took in that tall, proud form, and a heady sense of exaltation had filled him, had forced him to his feet and back into battle. He barely remembered meeting Tousen that day, barely remembered lifting his sword against his former captain or the blind man falling. The faces of the Arrancar he had battled blurred together, a tiny thread of his awareness always on the silver-haired Vizard moving through the ranks of the enemy, mask in place and battling for Karakura and the Society that had betrayed him and his companions all those years ago.   
  
Kensei Muguruma.  
  
He tested the name in his head, closing his eyes on a groan as he sank down further in the tub. Just thinking the name conjured an image of the man.   
  
Stern features, amber eyes hard but not cold—never cold. That smile—dangerously sharp, wicked as he plowed through enemies on the battlefield; the child he had been on that long ago day had been struck dumb at the sight of that smile, his tears drying up at the man’s urging. The man he had become regarded the sight of that smile in an entirely different light—one that he had tried denying for the past six months.  
  
Feeling his cock stir and knowing that what little privacy he had managed to receive so far would not likely last, he rose to his feet slowly, familiar shame burning through him at the direction of his thoughts. He shouldn’t be thinking of his taicho in such a manner, shouldn’t fantasize about the man who had saved him all those years ago taking him to bed, and tonight that shame was further compounded by the dull ache in his chest that his thoughts had produced. Lusting after his taicho was bad enough. Lusting after his taicho when it was quite likely that the man wanted him gone was quite another.  
  
Still, his body’s demands refused to be ignored, no matter what his mind—and yes, his heart—was saying. Lying awake in his lonely bed, body burning with the need to touch and be touched, he had tried countless times to redirect his fantasies elsewhere, imaging Renji, Kira, Matsumoto—anyone and everyone he found the least bit attractive. But each and every time his thoughts would circle back to a stern face with lambent amber eyes, that powerful body moving over and within his own, and his back would bow on a soft cry as he spilled into his stroking hand.   
  
Shuuhei stepped free of the tub and pulled the plug on the drain, scooping a towel from a nearby basket to dry off as he crossed to the bench where he had left his clothes. The dark yukata clung to his still damp body, but the midnight blue fabric effectively concealed his growing arousal. Grabbing his discarded uniform from the bench, he made his way back down the empty hall to his room, silently grateful that once again he managed to avoid meeting any of the shouten’s inhabitants during the short trip. He could only image what his face looked like at the moment, his face felt hot as his mind conjured images of his taicho rising above him, eyes gleaming gold as he smiled down at his prey—at Shuuhei.  
  
The black-haired fukutaicho stepped into his room and shut the door, tossing aside his clothes as he leaned back against the smooth wood behind him, eyes closing as he drew in a shuddering breath, struggling for a semblance of control. Knowing he was only delaying the inevitable, he still tried to banish the images burning in his mind, guilt and shame and arousal twisting inside him, fanning the flames of desire higher and higher. He prided himself on his calm nature, prided himself on control, and yet he couldn’t control this. He’d tried telling himself that it was merely his body’s way of reminding him that he hadn’t taken a lover in a very long time—since before Aizen and Tousen and Gin had betrayed Soul Society—that his desire for his taicho was due only to proximity and nothing more, but he knew it for the lie that it was.  
  
Pushing away from the door, he padded across the room to his futon, easing himself down upon the soft mattress even as he loosened the tie holding his sleeping robe closed with shaking fingers. Rolling onto his back, midnight fabric sliding across his skin, he reached down to his straining arousal, stroking it slowly from root to tip teasingly, eyes sliding closed on a soft moan as he allowed his imagination free reign.   
  
His free hand stroked slowly down his chest, but behind his closed lids it was not his hand but his taicho’s touching him. Sword calloused fingertips circled a hardening nipple before pinching the sensitive nub, hard enough to make him gasp; his fist tightened around his erection, pumping it firmly as his hips rolled at the sensation of pain mixing with pleasure. He stroked his hand upwards, head falling back against the pillow to bare his throat, a whimper of raw need escaping him as he lightly scratched blunt nails across tender skin, fingers continuing upwards to his mouth, teasingly stroking across his bottom lip before he slipped two inside, suckling at his own flesh as he imaged his captain’s fingers gliding against his tongue, ordering him to ‘suck’ in a harsh, hoarse whisper, amber eyes burning down at him from above.  
  
Freeing his fingers with a soft ‘pop’, Shuuhei slipped his hand back down his body, shivering as goose bumps rose along the wet path he traced, hips still moving his aching cock through his stroking fist. He spread his legs, bending one knee as his hand slid along the tender skin of where thigh met hip, teasing his way behind the tight orbs of his sac to circle one finger around the puckered edges of his untried entrance. A soft groan spilled from his throat as he slipped the slender digit inside, brow knitting at the slight pain, and he waited for his body to relax before pumping it slowly in and out. Slipping in a second finger, a soft cry tore free of his throat at the feeling of being stretched, the alien sensation of being filled unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Swiping his thumb over the leaking slit of his cock to spread the pre-cum already dripping from the tip, he sped his strokes, scissoring the fingers inside him and feeling for the bundle of nerves—  
  
Dark eyes flew open in surprise as bright, hot pleasure swept through him, spine bowing as a rough moan tore from his throat. He aimed for that spot again, hand working at his cock, hips rocking upwards, writhing between his hand and the mattress beneath him as the gathering pressure at the base of his spine signaled his oncoming orgasm. Slipping a third finger inside himself in an aching need to be filled, the bright pain sent him tipping over the edge…  
  
“Taicho!”  
  
He spilled over his hand, thick seed spurting as his climax slammed through him, his moans filling the room as his body shuddered through his orgasm, stroking hand milking every last drop from his aching cock till there was nothing left. He fell limply back against the bed, whimpering softly as he removed his fingers, and the whimper turned to a sob.  
  
Throwing an arm across his eyes when he felt the prick of hot tears against his closed lids, he breathed deeply in order to calm himself, his body wracked with shudders of an entirely different sort. Once again he had dishonored his taicho…  
  
Maybe he deserved this punishment.   
  
Though he had tried to deny it, telling himself over and over again that what he felt for his captain was merely simple admiration and respect, he was forced to confront the fact that the growing ache in his chest had nothing to do with his worry that he would lose the position he had worked so hard to obtain but a fear of losing his place at his taicho’s side. It left him feeling raw, and vulnerable, and he knew now that he was in serious trouble—worse still he had no clue as to how he was going to fix it.  
  
Grimacing at the feel of semen drying on his skin, he forced himself upright long enough to grab his obi from where it lay on the floor and wiped himself off, tossing the strip of fabric aside with a mental note to wash it in the morning, his thoughts very dark as he switched off the lamp and climbed back into bed to lie staring up at the ceiling with burning eyes and an aching heart. Lost in his contemplations, Shuuhei never noticed when the tiny gap in his door slid closed, nor did he hear the near-silent padding of footsteps moving away down the hall.   
  
It was a long time before he finally succumbed to exhausted slumber.


	3. Unexpected Reunions

The cool night air of Karakura settled around him as he stepped free of the Senkaimon, the quiet peace of the deserted street soothing the impatience that had been gnawing at him for the last two days; he’d wanted to leave for the Real World immediately, but had realized midway through his packing that he couldn’t simply up and vanish without a word to anyone. As the 9th’s captain he held certain duties and responsibilities to both his men and the rest of Soul Society, ones that couldn’t be ignored in favor of his personal life. So he had changed into a clean uniform and sought out his 3rd seat, informing the man that he would be in charge in the absence of both taicho and fukutaicho and making sure the officer was capable of handling things while he was gone.   
  
Kensei smiled to himself as he made his way down the quiet streets leading towards the Vizard’s warehouse; he needn’t have worried about his 3rd’s qualifications. In the months following the betrayal, Hisagi had taken over the running of the 9th, and the entire division had followed his lead. If he hadn’t been reinstated, Hisagi would have most likely been promoted to captain and his 3rd elevated to fukutaicho. He had been expecting some resentment from the ranks of his seated officers during those first few weeks, but there had been surprisingly little resistance or grumbling—a fact he attributed to his fukutaicho’s influence. Hisagi’s immediate acceptance of him had gone a long way to soothing any ruffled feathers his reinstatement might had caused, and Kensei knew that if the young man hadn’t been so welcoming, his early days as leader of the division would have been much more difficult.  
  
Even though it was well after nightfall, he figured he would find his lieutenant at the warehouse; the younger man was utterly thorough when it came to work, and even though this little assignment had only been a desperate attempt at putting some much-needed distance between himself and the object of his desire, he knew his fukutaicho would be taking his mission seriously. A tiny stab of guilt wormed its way through his conscience at the thought of the younger man working so hard because of the Vizard’s selfishness; he’d discovered almost immediately that he had gained himself one of the most dedicated officers in the Gotei, one who performed his duties efficiently and without complaint—the exact opposite of his former fukutaicho in both work ethic and temperament. Not only did Hisagi perform the normal duties of division lieutenant, he also had taken over the running of the Seireitei News, a job Kensei had been all too happy to let him keep. The reinstated taicho had no interest in publishing, while his fukutaicho clearly had a passion for it; the normally somber young man had been fairly radiating enthusiasm as he’d taken Kensei on a tour of the newspaper’s office, introducing him to the officers that staffed the News who eyed the Vizard warily, as one would a large, hungry predator. He’d only vaguely understood Hisagi’s talk of circulation and subscriptions and his hopes for the paper’s future, but he’d known that he could leave the paper in his fukutaicho’s capable hands without worry. As the weeks turned into months, he had been grateful for that decision; his lieutenant’s duties as editor-in-chief took him away from their shared office twice a week, allowing Kensei to continue denying his attraction for that much longer. Of course, he had been all too aware of the dark-haired shinigami’s absence, and had found himself covertly studying the other man that much more closely when he returned to work the following day, the tension that had built inside him when he was gone easing, replaced by another sort of tension that saw him lying in his bed with his hand wrapped around his cock, determinedly not thinking about his lieutenant as he stroked himself to completion. On the days following those kinds of nights, he would find himself snarling at each and every member of his division, until they were all tiptoeing about him in fear of rousing his ire, and he’d finally decided that drastic measures had to be taken before he alienated the entire division.  
  
He’d ordered Hisagi to Karakura on one of those days he spent in the newspaper’s offices, going out of his way to seek him out instead of suffering through one more night of frustration and fantasy that always ended with the image of his fukutaicho spread out beneath him. His lieutenant had been poring over submissions for the newspaper’s next edition at his desk, engrossed in whatever he had been reading, and Kensei had allowed himself the guilty pleasure of watching from the doorway. For the thousandth time since the silver-haired Vizard had returned to Soul Society, he had found his gaze hungrily drinking in that all-too serious face, memorizing the minute changes in expression as the other man read, unwilling fascinated as he watched his lieutenant at work. A full minute had passed before he’d been able to shake himself free of his reverie and he’d cleared his throat to gain the black-haired man’s attention—only to find himself fighting back a smile when Hisagi had glanced up and he’d caught sight of the smudge of ink decorating one high cheekbone, just beside the bold black lines of the ‘69’ tattoo marking the young man’s face. His fingers had itched with the desire to reach out and wipe that smudge away, and he’d curled his hand into a fist to prevent him from doing just that…  
  
Kensei grinned to himself as he neared the warehouse; if his mission was successful he wouldn’t have to suppress those sorts of desires any longer. If Hisagi were his lover he could touch the other man whenever he liked, though he would save most of his caresses for the privacy of the bedroom; his reserved fukutaicho would most likely protest having sex in the office, though perhaps over time Kensei would be able to talk him into trying it.   
  
Picturing the younger man spread out across the shining surface of his mahogany desk, gazing up at him with lust-filled eyes and wantonly sprawled limbs, the silver-haired Vizard felt himself grow achingly erect and was thankful for the loose cut of his cargo pants. His former compatriots would tease him mercilessly if they noticed him walking around with a hard-on, and though he didn’t embarrass easily, he was sure one or more of them would gleefully point it out to Hisagi. No, that was not at all how he wanted his fukutaicho to discover the reason for his taicho’s sudden appearance.  
  
“Oi! It’s about time you showed up!”   
  
Jerked from his musings at the sound of that belligerent voice, he focused on his surroundings to find Hiyori leaning in the open doorway of the warehouse, scowling up at him.  
  
“Good to see you too, Hiyori,” he murmured dryly, but her scowl only deepened as she turned her back on him, entering the crumbling building without another word, leaving him to follow.  
  
Face not betraying his rising anticipation, his eyes swept the dimly-lit interior of the building he had called home for over a century, searching for his lieutenant’s familiar black-clad form, frowning when he didn’t see Hisagi. Rose was seated on his favorite ratty old sofa, softly strumming a melody on his guitar while Love reclined beside him reading a manga, most likely one that he had borrowed from Lisa. The former fukutaicho of the 8th division was seated across from the two men in an armchair that matched the sofa for rattiness, long, bare legs swinging gently as she flipped a page of her own book, engrossed in whatever she was reading.  
  
“Kensei!”  
  
His attention was yanked away from the three Vizard by a happy screech that had him wincing, turning as a blur of green, white and orange came flying towards him from across the open room. He caught Mashiro as she launched herself at him, a reluctant grin twitching at the corners of his mouth as her slim arms wrapped around his neck with near-choking strength. So maybe he had missed her just a little bit…  
  
“I see the prodigal returns. Did you get bored of Soul Society already, Kensei? Or did the shinigami kick you out?”  
  
Shinji emerged from the shadows, head tilted down so only his smile was visible beneath the brim of his hat, and Kensei gently pried his former lieutenant’s arms from his neck, setting her down carefully as he turned towards the blond, his own teeth showing as he grinned down at the skinny Vizard who had been their de facto leader.  
  
“Neither. Aren’t I allowed to come by and say ‘hi’ once in awhile?” he asked, feeling the weight of the others’ stares on him as he gazed steadily down at Shinji. The former taicho of the 5th lifted his head, a touch of bitterness showing in his brown eyes as he examined the bigger man in silence, taking in the familiar cargo pants and jersey, making Kensei thankful that he had decided against wearing his uniform and haori. Though Yamamoto’s offer had been extended to them all, Kensei had been the only one who had chosen to return to Soul Society, the others having decided they were happier in the Real World; his cool reception by the rest of the Visoreds—with the exception of Mashiro, of course—made him realize that they had been more upset by his leaving than he had thought and left him wondering if he had made a mistake in sending Hisagi to them.  
  
“Oh? So this is a social call? You finally remembered your friends? Or are you here for some other reason—like a certain black-haired shinigami?” Shinji asked slyly, customary smile back in place as he cocked his head to one side, and Kensei mentally cursed himself for forgetting that the blond was far more perceptive than he appeared. Still, it wouldn’t do to let his consternation at being so easily read show.   
  
“I’ve been a little busy,” he replied dryly, earning a derisive snort from one of the three behind him, but he didn’t bother turning to see who, his gaze steady on the skinny man in front of him. His impatience had returned, but he reminded himself that he had waited six months already—a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt if it meant soothing Shinji’s obviously ruffled feathers. The ex-captain’s smile disappeared, his expression turning serious as he studied the taller man.  
  
“You look tired, Kensei. They giving you trouble over there?” he asked finally, and the silver-haired Visored felt the tension coiling inside him vanish at the concern he heard in the blond’s voice. One corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a smile as he shook his head.  
  
“It’s like I never left. To be honest, I had expected some resistance, but the men took Hisagi’s lead and have been very welcoming.”   
  
“So you get along with your new fukutaicho then?” Shinji asked lightly, a strange gleam appearing in his eyes—one that spelled trouble. Kensei had seen that particular gleam before, usually right before the blond said or did something outrageous, and a note of disquiet slid down his spine at the sight of it now, in relation to his mention of the young shinigami.   
  
“He’s a good kid,” he said cautiously, wondering what Shinji was up to, and laughter erupted behind him.   
“Oh yes—he’s a very good kid. No matter what we do he remains unfailingly polite and respectful—though I think he’s finally lost his patience with us. He only lasted an hour today,” Love snickered, and Kensei turned to face him, his expression thunderous.  
  
“What the hell are you talking about, Aikawa?”  
  
“Eh, Shuuhei-kun is so serious, and we thought you didn’t like us anymore, so we played a few jokes on him is all,” Mashiro chirped from beside him, dragging his attention away from Love and down to her. She was beaming up at him, eyes wide with feigned innocence, and he had to curb to the urge to throttle her—to throttle them all. He knew exactly what kind of ‘jokes’ they liked to play—he would be lucky if Hisagi even deigned to speak with him after this, let alone indulge in any kind of physical relationship with his taicho.  
  
“You played a few jokes on him,” he stated flatly, and she nodded cheerfully. Either she didn’t notice the dangerous undercurrents swirling through his reiatsu or she was ignoring them on purpose.  
  
“Well, not really jokes. We just ignored him for the most part—though Mashiro enjoyed playing with his hair. He looks adorable in pigtails.”  
  
Kensei could only blink, trying to imagine his serious fukutaicho with his hair tied up in clips and ribbons, and the resulting mental image was far too appealing, especially considering his present company.   
  
“My, my—you should see your face, Kensei. Do I even want to know what kind of perverted thoughts are circling about in your brain at the moment?” Shinji asked teasingly, only to receive a withering glare from the silver-haired Vizard.  
  
“That’s rather rich coming from you, Shinji,” Kensei growled, but the skinny ex-captain’s smile merely widened.  
  
“Oho! He doesn’t know, does he? The kid’s got absolutely no clue that his beloved hero wants to toss him down and fuck him senseless!”  
  
Kensei felt his eyebrow twitch in response and only just managed to contain his rising growl, silently damning the blond for the unwelcome reminder that Hisagi viewed him not as a man or even a respected taicho but as some sort of savior to be placed atop a lofty pedestal and admired from afar—though to be fair to his fukutaicho, the kid had quit the awestruck groupie act fairly quickly, once Kensei had put his foot down on that sort of behavior. He didn’t need nor want that sort of worship, especially not from his young lieutenant.  
  
“You know, if you wait too long someone else might come along and snatch him up—he’s actually rather attractive if one overlooks the dour personality and the scars and tattoos.”  
  
Don’t hit him, don’t hit him, don’t hit him.   
  
Oh, but he wanted to—his hand fairly itched with the desire to smash Shinji’s grinning face.  
  
“Oi! Knock it off, Baldy! I don’t feel like cleaning up your blood tonight!” Hiyori suddenly appeared from wherever she had been hiding, smacking the blond in the head with her sandal. The mounting need to do violence to the other man vanished at the normalcy of the scene, one he had witnessed thousands of times over the years, and he felt the tension inside him melt away. Ignoring Shinji’s predicament, he turned back to the three Visored sitting nearby.  
  
“I take it Hisagi isn’t here,” he stated casually, hoping one of the three more level-headed members of the little group would be able to tell him where his fukutaicho was.  
  
“He’s been gone for hours. Urahara-san mentioned that he’d been returning later and later each night, but since the War ended the number of Hollows hanging about Karakura has decreased—you’ll probably find him back at the shouten by now,” Lisa commented disinterestedly, not bothering to look up from her manga. Kensei frowned at the cryptic statement, wondering what the hell the number of Hollows in Karakura had to do with his lieutenant, but he knew asking her for an explanation would do him little good; unlike Hiyori and Shinji, the former fukutaicho of the 8th division showed her annoyance in far more subtle ways. He was just going to have to find out what she meant for himself.  
  
“Kensei.”  
  
He’d started for the door without a further word, unease coiling through him now, but paused when she called his name, glancing back to find her gazing at him with a somber expression.  
  
“Yeah?” It came out rougher than he’d intended, but he was suddenly tired and more than a little irritated by his former companions’ reception. To her credit she didn’t even flinch, instead offering him a tiny smile.  
  
“Good luck—and don’t do anything rash,” she said softly. He held her gaze for a long moment before nodding, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards in return.  
  
“Thanks, Yadomaru. I’ll be back in the morning.”  
  
He didn’t bother waiting for a reply, leaving the warehouse and flash-stepping towards the shouten where he would hopefully find his lieutenant.   
  
The silver-haired Vizard bit back a curse at the sight of the shopkeeper seated on the steps leading up to the porch at the rear of the shop, those sharp, sharp eyes glittering from the shadows cast by his ever-present hat as he watched Kensei’s approach.   
  
“Good evening, Muguruma-kun—or should I say ‘Muguruma-taicho’?” The greeting was delivered in an unusually serious tone, one rarely heard from the normally playful ex-taicho and the reinstated captain paused at the foot of the stairs, wondering what had caused the change in the shopkeeper’s usual demeanor.   
  
“What’s with the sudden formality?” he asked bluntly, gazing down at the seated man suspiciously. Instead of replying, however, Urahara rose to his feet, padding barefoot across the porch to the open door of the shop.  
  
“Shuu-kun just left his bath and is preparing for bed—I suggest you do the same and wait until morning to let him know you’re here. Tessai readied a room for you down the hall,” the blond said quietly as he stepped inside, waiting for Kensei to follow before closing and locking the door. The silver-haired man didn’t bother asking how Tessai even knew he would be coming; like Urahara, the former commander of the Kido Corp. seemed to possess an almost uncanny knack of ferreting out information. He followed his host deeper down the hall, amazed as always at how much bigger the shouten was on the inside in relation to its somewhat humble exterior; he’d long ago given up on trying to figure out how the shopkeeper had managed to twist the laws of space and dimension to suit his needs as trying to think like the brilliant ex-taicho only resulted in making his head ache. He merely accepted the fact that Urahara was a genius and left it at that.  
  
The shopkeeper paused in front of a door, glancing back at Kensei. “Good night, Muguruma-kun. Please don’t do anything rash.”  
  
With that said, the blond continued down the hall, leaving the Vizard scowling after him. First Yadomaru, and now Urahara—what the hell did they expect him to do?  
  
‘They know what we want. He’s so close, so vulnerable--Ours.’   
  
His Hollow made itself known, its voice cajoling, tempting; he could feel his fukutaicho’s nearness, the subtle brush of Hisagi’s reiatsu against his skin a caress that had the Vizard’s control slipping. He was so damn close…  
  
‘Kensei, don’t do anything foolish. Don’t do something that you will regret later—morning is soon enough.’  
  
Tachikaze’s warning went unheeded as Kensei moved further down the hall, stopping in front of a blank door only a few feet from his own room. He could sense his lieutenant just on the other side, heard the faint rustle of fabric sliding against skin and was unable to prevent himself from reaching out, sliding the shoji open a crack. He told himself he just wanted a glimpse of the younger man, that he would be satisfied with a quick look inside and that once he had seen his fukutaicho he would take himself off to bed…  
  
Amber eyes widened as his gaze fell on his lieutenant and it was all he could do to stifle a groan as lust exploded inside him.  
  
Most of the room was hidden from view, but the futon was in direct line with the door, softly illuminated by the light cast by a single lamp. His fukutaicho lay atop the covers, dark sleeping yukata falling open along either side of his lean body to reveal a mouth-watering expanse of pale golden flesh. Kensei shuddered as a soft moan tore from Hisagi’s throat, one hand sliding up his chest while the other slipped downwards, long fingers curling about a straining erection and stroking slowly, slim hips rolling with a hypnotic grace that held the watching man transfixed. He knew he should leave, that he was violating his fukutaicho’s privacy, but he couldn’t move, afraid to alert Hisagi to his presence.   
  
Questing fingertips sought and found a dusky nipple, circling teasingly before pinching firmly, eliciting a gasp that was half-pain and half-pleasure; the erotic sound loosened Kensei’s control another notch, forcing him to grip the doorframe in a white-knuckled grasp as his cock hardened painfully. His imagination was nothing compared to the reality before him. The silver-haired Vizard watched helplessly as that hand moved upwards, gliding over the tempting arch of a submissively-bared throat, biting back a possessive growl at the display as his Hollow came roaring to the surface. His fukutaicho’s whimper of raw need almost shattered his control, the sound a siren’s song swirling around him, calling to everything dark and possessive and primitive inside the older man.   
  
Two slender digits slipped past parted lips, his lieutenant suckling his fingers, wetting them thoroughly before sliding them free and back down his body; Kensei swallowed hard as the dark-haired man stroked his damp fingers lower and lower, legs parting and his far knee bending to give the watching Vizard a perfect view of those teasing fingers slipping down behind his sac, seeking out the tiny pucker of his hole. Amber eyes narrowed at the breathy, pain-filled moan, shaking him from his lust-induced haze, and he tore his gaze from the entrancing sight of Hisagi’s lower body to look at his face, frowning when he saw the furrowed brow and tightly closed eyes that indicated the kid was unused to this. Kensei couldn’t help the sense of possessive satisfaction that rose within him at the realization, nor did he mind the echoing of his Hollow’s triumphant laugh as it too understood that the one it had chosen as its ‘mate’ was untainted; even Tachikaze held himself silent and watching, his earlier disapproval vanishing as he too fell under the spell the young man unknowingly was weaving.   
  
A soft cry drew his attention away from his Inner World and back to the dark-haired young man writhing slowly on the bed only a few feet away from where the silver-haired man stood watching; he drank in the vision of his lieutenant’s pleasure, his own body throbbing for a release. He held himself back, not wanting to miss a single moment of this private show; no matter what happened after this night, he would always have this memory of Hisagi to cherish.   
  
Kensei knew exactly when the kid found his prostate; dark eyes flew open on a rough moan, his long, lean body bowed off the bed, head turning to press one cheek against his pillow as both hands quickened their pace between his long legs. It was one of the most beautiful sights Kensei had ever been fortunate enough to witness…  
  
“Taicho!”  
  
His fukutaicho’s climax was torn from him with a keening wail, the title both plea and promise to the man watching unseen from the doorway; savage joy and possessiveness filled Kensei at the sound, echoed by his Hollow’s exultant roar. Tachikaze sighed deeply, contentment radiating from the spirit in something akin to both pleasure and blessing. For the first time since his return to Soul Society, Kensei felt as if he had come home. He watched as his lieutenant’s lean body shuddered through the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hand slowing as he milked himself, moaning softly as he rode out the last waves of pleasure before falling limply back against the futon, whimpering softly as he slipped his fingers free of his body. Admiring the thoroughly debauched picture his fukutaicho made sprawled languidly across his bed, sweat-dampened limbs gleaming in the soft glow of the lamplight, glistening seed spattered across his belly and chest and fingers, he found himself smiling faintly—a smile that faded abruptly when he heard a quiet sob leave the other man’s throat. Sharp amber eyes flew to Hisagi’s face just as the young man threw his arm across his eyes, hiding his expression, but Kensei had caught the abject misery etched across his fukutaicho’s face in that split second; the dark-haired young man sobbed again, and then his body was shaking with the force of his tears, and Kensei could only stare at him through the tiny gap in the door in dismay. The joy he had felt only moments ago died in the face of his lieutenant’s heartbroken tears, and as much as he wanted to step inside that room and offer comfort, he was more afraid of screwing things up even further. He had spied on a private moment, one he was never meant to see, and his lieutenant would be mortified if he knew his captain had seen him.   
  
The Vizard forced himself to close the door and allow Hisagi his privacy, reluctantly turning away and padding back down the hall to his room silently. He held onto the reminder that his fukutaicho had called out ‘taicho!’ in his moment of climax, and though there were plenty of captains in Soul Society, he was the only one the dark-haired young man called by title alone. For now it was enough to know that his lieutenant desired him; tomorrow he would take steps to discover how much, and if there was even a possibility that Hisagi would be interested in taking a more permanent place at his captain’s side.  
  
Letting himself into his own room, Kensei readied himself for bed, his mind caught up in possible plans of action that he would implement come morning.


	4. Misconstruing Motives

  _“Let me see your face…I want to see your face while I still can.”_

_Kazeshini was screeching in his head, calling him stupid and idiotic and reminding him that Tousen had tossed him aside like so much garbage, but he ignored the spirit to lean closer to the broken, dying man, unable to deny his former captain this small request. Despite the lies and betrayals, the man had taken him from the slums of Rukongai and given him an unattainable dream…_

_Wholly white eyes tracked over his face, the weight of that formerly sightless gaze coming to rest on the numbers etched beneath his left cheekbone. Full lips parted, forming a soundless “Goodbye Hisagi”, and Shuuhei’s eyes widened as he felt spirit energy suck inward in preparation to fire a cero blast—_

_He reacted to the threat without conscious thought, his own reiatsu flaring to counter the attack, and the monster he had once revered exploded in a shower of blood and flesh and bits of bone, drenching the kneeling fukutaicho in gore. He could taste Tousen’s blood on his lips, feel it soaking through his uniform to lay slick and almost greasy against his bare skin, and the overpowering smell—combined with the knowledge that_ he _had_ _done this—made his stomach twist with silky, burning nausea…’_

Shuuhei bolted upright in bed, heart thundering and breaths coming in short, gasping pants, and it was a full minute before he realized that he was in his room at the shouten and not kneeling atop a ruined building in the fake Karakura Town and covered in his former captain’s blood.

The shakes set in then, self-loathing and disgust and a host of other, darker emotions too muddled together to name clearly twisting through him wracking his lean form till he thought he might actually void the meager contents of his stomach—his frantic gaze darted about the sterile confines of his borrowed quarters for a receptacle so he didn’t sully the floor while a hand clamped over his mouth as the sour sting of bile burned the back of his throat, and only the fact that he had forgotten to eat ( _again_ ) made the lack of bucket or bin or even a blasted _vase_ bearable…there was simply nothing in his stomach to throw up.

He could _feel_ Tousen’s blood on him, though, like an oily film against his skin, and the phantom sensation sent him scrambling from the twisted covers of his futon with the need to get clean beating frantically in his chest like a trapped, helpless bird behind glass.

Cool air against his skin arrested his flight towards the door, and he glanced down to see his yukata hanging open, reminding him of his activities the night before, and an all-new shame flashed through him. _Again_. He’d succumbed to his unhealthy desires yet again, had sullied his captain in thought and deed once more…

Worse still, he had done so even after realizing that the other man probably hated him.

His stomach heaved once more, and lack of food or no, his body was still _trying_ to purge itself. His throat was burning, his mouth flooded by thin, sour bile, and there was nowhere for it to go. It hurt to swallow, but swallow he did, unwilling to dirty the floor, unwilling to leave the shopkeeper evidence that everything _was not fine_. He’d fought so long to preserve the fiction he’d clung to for so many decades, preserve the illusion that he was _alright_ , that he remained _unaffected_ by Tousen’s betrayal, by the Vizards’ return, by his unnatural, unwanted lust for his captain-who-wanted-him-gone…no, he couldn’t lose it now. He had to stay strong, ignore the ever-increasing blows that were dealt and roll with the punches. _He was_ _not weak, damnit!_ He would finish his time here in the Real World, endure the Vizards, and return to Soul Society where his captain would most likely dismiss him from his post as fukutaicho of the 9th—and he would stand tall and take this latest blow with dignity and an outward show of composure to mask the final shattering of his soul. It was only fitting that Muguruma Kensei deal the last blow; the man had given him life, and he would be the one to take it away.

Resolute in this at least, his uneasy, delicate stomach under control, he turned to dress in his uniform, only to find the familiar pile of black and white clothing absent. In its place was a stack of Real World clothing, neatly folded and placed on the chair where hakama, kosode and shihakushou would normally lie.

For a long moment he blinked at the small pile in disbelief, not that someone had entered his room while he slept, oh no—though that caused a small amount of discomfort all on its own—but rather that his _uniform_ —the symbol of his place as a shinigami—was _gone._ It was as if his identity had been utterly, thoroughly erased, as if he were already dismissed from his post as Muguruma-taicho’s lieutenant, and the realization _hurt_. How _dare_ Urahara do this? How _dare_ the shopkeeper take this from him? Of everything he had lost so far, the loss of his uniform was the harshest blow, and _not_ the shopkeeper’s place to deal.

But he couldn’t confront the ex-captain in his sleepwear, no matter how furious he was—his own sense of modesty and restraint would not countenance his emerging from his room in such a state of dishabille. He had no choice but to draw on the clothing so _thoughtfully_ provided, and once dressed, he stormed from his room to confront his host.

 

He avoided Kisuke’s piercing gaze, focusing all of his attention on the steaming mug of coffee Tessai had so thoughtfully provided knowing the silver-haired man’s preference for the beverage over tea in the morning—only Hisagi could make his tea just the way he liked it—and tried to quell the nervous anticipation fluttering in his stomach at the thought of seeing his lieutenant again face-to-face. He _knew_ the road ahead of him would be a long one, and arduous—Hisagi was not one to fall prey to pretty words, even if Kensei had the capability to offer them. The memory of his lieutenant’s private moment the night before had haunted his dreams, making it difficult to sleep, and the despair he’d witnessed afterwards had sent guilt flooding his very being. _He_ had done this…he knew that as clear as day, and didn’t need Tachikaze’s scolding to make that fact perfectly clear, though his zanpakuto had certainly given him an earful, even after he’d snarled at the spirit to ‘ _shut the fuck up_ ’. He’d spent hours lying awake, formulating and discarding plans till exhaustion had dragged him into slumber to dream of his fukutaicho’s lean, lithe form and breathless cries of pleasure, and when he had been roused by a _far_ too cheerful shopkeeper, he’d risen from his bed feeling sluggish and snappy with temper, with no definite plans to win his prize. Irritation surrounded him in a black cloud, and the piercing grey-green gaze currently dissecting him from across the low table where he sat silently with the other ex-captain only sharpened his already-foul temper.

“Ah, it appears young Hisagi-kun is awake,” said ex-captain murmured, snapping his ever-present fan closed and laying it on the table beside his own steaming mug of tea. The green-and-white striped hat—a ridiculous affectation—cast a shadow across the shopkeeper’s eyes, but didn’t conceal the glint of amusement in those murky depths.

Kensei extended his reiatsu, searching for Shuuhei’s, only to have it recoil as it hit the oncoming storm of the younger man’s power. From the feel of the wild, crackling energy, Hisagi was _pissed_ , and though ordinarily the Vizard captain would take pleasure in sensing such depth of emotion from his usually composed fukutaicho, right now it was the last thing he needed.

The chaotic energy roiled through the doorway just ahead of the younger man, and Kensei braced himself as it splashed violently against his own reiatsu, forcing himself to sip casually at his coffee as he waited for his lieutenant to appear, wondering what had set off the normally calm shinigami.

 “ _Where the_ fuck _is_ _my uniform_?”

He choked on the mouthful of coffee he’d just imbibed as Hisagi stalked into the kitchen, dark eyes narrowed on the blond shopkeeper seated on the other side of the table, seemingly unaware of the silver-haired man sitting mere inches away, his lean figure radiating the promise of swift, remorseless violence. But it wasn’t the snarled question that had startled the Vizard, or at least, not that alone; nor was it the fact that his composed, stoic fukutaicho was ready to rend Urahara limb from limb—though that too was certainly startling in and of itself. No, Kensei’s reaction stemmed purely from the bolt of lust that had slammed into him when he caught sight of what his second was _wearing_.

In the sleeveless shitagi and kosode and voluminous hakama of his uniform, Hisagi was an attractive man, yet easily recognizable as a blooded warrior of the Gotei.

Dressed in slim-cut, well-worn jeans that hugged endlessly long legs and an equally worn, torso-skimming tee shirt the color of charcoal, the aura of “soldier” vanished entirely, emphasizing the wild, feral beauty of the man that lie beneath the rank. Out of uniform, Hisagi Shuuhei’s attractiveness was like a blow, hitting Kensei square in the gut. Even if he hadn’t already made up his mind to pursue and capture the younger man—to make him _his_ —the sight of him in casual Living World fashion would have cemented his decision for him.

“Now, now, Hisagi-kun, your uniform is perfectly safe in Tessai’s hands, and I am ashamed to say that I was remiss in not providing you more appropriate attire much sooner,” the shopkeeper murmured, his eyes raking over the lean figure standing before him with an avid gleam that Kensei _did not_ like. A low, menacing growl of warning left the Vizard’s throat, dragging Kisuke’s attention from the younger man—and drew Hisagi’s unfriendly gaze to his captain.

The surprise in those dark green irises would have been comical if the vice captain hadn’t immediately turned sheet white.

“T-taicho!”

Before Kensei could stop him, Hisagi was making his obeisance, gracefully falling to one knee and bowing his head to his superior, the lines of his body taut with… _tension_? _Or was it fear?_

The kid looked like he was expecting a blow.

Kensei felt his eyebrows draw together in a scowl; when had he _ever_ given Hisagi cause for fear? He would _never_ hurt the younger man, even if he hadn’t wanted him so desperately that his Hollow _howled_ its possession inside his head.

“Get up, kid. That’s not necessary here,” he said, more sharply than he intended, and watched helplessly as the younger man _flinched_ before rising gracefully to his feet, refusing to meet his captain’s gaze.

“Of course, Taicho. I apologize,” he murmured quietly.

Kensei glanced over at Kisuke, expecting to find amusement dancing in gray-green eyes, but the ex-captain’s expression was curiously grim as he watched his guests’ interaction. Beneath the brim of the ridiculous striped hat, those sharp eyes were narrowed very slightly, and the look he shot Kensei was unreadable.

“Tessai is cleaning and repairing your uniform, Hisagi-kun, and will return it to you once he is finished. I felt, however, that you would be more comfortable in less— _formal_ —attire while you are here completing your…mission.”

Even if Kensei had somehow managed to miss the narrow-eyed glance the shopkeeper sent his way, the blond’s tone—along with the words of caution he’d delivered the night before—told him clearly that Kisuke was very much aware of _why_ the Vizard had sent Shuuhei to the Living World, and he did not approve.

“But—”

“Leave it be, kid. He’s right—you’ll get more done if you’re not dressed like a shinigami. _I_ made a mistake by not telling you that they wouldn’t welcome you dressed like my lieutenant, and I’m sorry that you had to deal with their bullshit because I’m an idiot.”

  It was as close as he was going to get to telling Shuuhei that his “mission” was fabricated solely on Kensei’s desire to distance himself from the object of his growing obsession; he’d come to his senses three days ago, and now all he had to do was use this mini-vacation in the Real World to secure the younger man’s affection—a task he wasn’t foolish enough to believe would be an easy one, not when Hisagi was looking at him with those cautiously blank eyes that refused to reveal his fukutaicho’s thoughts.

“I apologize, Taicho, for offending your friends with my presence.”

There, a hint of defensiveness—good. Not ideal, but he’d take it over the emotionless façade that hid what Hisagi was thinking any day.

“My _friends_ are morons who need their collective heads knocked together. And trust me, if they were offended by your presence they would have done far more than play pranks on you,” he growled, remembering Mashiro’s mirth from the night before. He’d been stupid and selfish, throwing Shuuhei to the wolves like he had. He was damned if he would let them continue treating him that way.

“I failed—”

Kensei cut his lieutenant off before he could continue. “No, you didn’t fail. I sent you to them unprepared, and though I’m technically on vacation here, I’m not about to let them keep messing with you.”

The younger man’s expression went absolutely blank, and the Vizard knew he had just stepped in it, though he wasn’t quite sure _how_.

“I’m sorry, Taicho, that I do not meet your standards as a vice captain, and that you felt the need to interrupt your vacation to correct my mistakes—” he began in a deadened tone, and Kensei’s eyes widened in shock. _That’s_ what was bothering Shuuhei? He really thought that—oh _hell_ no!

“Hisag—Shuuhei. Stop. Shut up with that, alright?” The dark-haired man’s mouth closed with a snap, his eyes having widened at the informal use of his first name. “I don’t find you lacking in any way as a fukutaicho—as _my_ fukutaicho. You’re dedicated, intelligent, and have made my reinstatement—something that you had every right to feel resentment over—smooth as silk. Compared to every other vice captain in the Gotei, you’re the only one I want under me,” he said, ignoring the amused glint in the shopkeeper’s eyes at the unconscious double entendre, especially when he saw the flush of color rise into Hisagi’s face and the pleasure shining in those dark, cat-like eyes at the compliment.

  Fuck, he wanted to see those eyes lit with pleasure for an entirely different reason—but this was a start.

“This is your mission, I’m only here to offer you support,” he finished in a quieter voice, hoping that his vice captain would accept his offering. If he didn’t—well, he would think of something else.

After a long moment’s hesitation, that dark head finally nodded, long lashes sweeping down to veil those shining green irises almost shyly, and Kensei fought the urge to leap upon the younger man, his Hollow crooning wordlessly in his ear.

“Thank you, Taicho.”

 “Now that _that’s_ settled, what do you say to breakfast, Hisagi-kun?”

The shopkeeper’s cheery voice interrupted the moment before it could grow too heavy, and for once, Kensei was glad for the ex-captain’s presence.

Shuuhei nodded, settling himself at the table between his captain and the blond, and Kisuke called for Tessai to bring them food.

Kensei thought that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be as difficult as he had thought.


	5. Mischief and Machinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes irritating friends can be a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know, I know. I left you all hanging on this for years, but a burst of inspiration struck (thank you, procrastination on my thesis and papers!) and I was driven to return to this. Originally I was planning on at least three or four more chapters, but to be honest, Limits was my first fic, and I feel that I have outgrown its original intended storyline. So when I sat down to write this, I decided that I can wrap the entire thing up in two last, big chapters. Thank you everyone who had read this and asked for more, and I hope that you’re not disappointed. I have a bunch of Shuuhei-centric fics sitting unfinished on my hard drive, as well as countless notebooks that had seen my scribbling over the years. Some I will finish and post, and others I intend to work into a couple of original works with the intent to publish. Kensei/Shuuhei has always been my favorite pairing, and this fic, though it has sat incomplete for years now, was my first foray into the world of writing fanfiction. That said, I hope this chapter meets with your satisfaction, and as always, comments are always welcome. Thanks!   
> A/N 2: Happy Birthday to my dear, darling OwnedByACat, without whom I would have never finished this fic. I hope this meets with your approval, dear. Also, the last chapter will be posted shortly.

Excepting the fukutaicho of the 11th, who rode upon her captain’s shoulder more often than not, tradition decreed that a lieutenant’s place was several paces behind their captain—close enough to hear any order given without their taicho needing to raise his or her voice, but distant enough to clearly delineate the difference in rank. Serving under Tousen, Shuuhei’s place had been a precise three paces behind and two to the right, a number that was never to be deviated from, even if he was injured or on the verge of losing consciousness, and the fukutaicho had drilled himself mercilessly until _three-behind-two-to-the-right_ came as naturally as breathing.

The position had been so deeply ingrained that even after eighteen months without having a captain to follow, upon Muguruma-san’s reinstatement he had automatically taken up his old position without thought, relieved to once again have a white-clad back filling his vision. Muguruma-taicho, however, was not Tousen. After more than century away from the rigid military structure of the Gotei, the silver-haired Vizard had little patience for ‘pointless, asinine traditions’, and had demanded that his lieutenant walk at his side, where he could see him and not feel as if he were ‘talking to himself like an idiot’. It had taken Shuuhei months to break himself of the habit, and every so often—usually when his captain was in a particularly irritable mood or Shuuhei himself was feeling off-balance and needing familiarity—he would find himself falling behind the older man, his brain unconsciously measuring out _three-behind-two-the-right_ until his taicho would huff an irritated sigh and reach back to drag him back to his side.

Emerging from the shouten, Shuuhei automatically slowed to allow his captain to take the lead, still dazed by the fact that his captain was in Karakura and wasn’t planning on getting rid of him after all. In fact, he had all but praised him, a benediction that he knew he shouldn’t crave as much as he did, but one that he was grateful for none-the-less.

He was still embarrassed that his taicho had witnessed him _yelling_ at Urahara-san over something as petty as a uniform, especially as the shopkeeper’s motives had been purely altruistic in nature, and though Muguruma-san had been polite enough to overlook his fukutaicho’s appalling breech of conduct, Shuuhei himself had not. He owed Urahara-san an apology, and promised himself that he would seek out the former captain just as soon as they returned to the shouten to deliver it.

A leather-clad hand wrapped around his wrist, startling him back to the present, and he looked up to discover that his taicho was frowning at him, brows lowered in a familiar scowl of annoyance.

“Maybe if I tie you to my side you’ll stop this,” he said, and Shuuhei felt his face flush as his traitorous mind supplied him with an mental image of being bound to the older man, only they were both naked, and horizontal.

His captain’s eyes were lambent in the bright sunshine, and he allowed himself to be tugged gently forward till he stood beside the Vizard.

“That’s better. Now I can see you,” the older man commented gruffly, releasing his arm. Shuuhei tried to ignore the pang of disappointment at the absence. Just because his taicho found him to be a capable lieutenant and had said he didn’t want anyone else didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his mind if he found out that Shuuhei was lusting after him. Even though fraternization between members of the same sex wasn’t frowned upon within the Gotei-- _wakashudo_ was a long-honored practice in their society—he’d never seen his captain display even a hint of interest in any kind of romantic entanglement, with either sex. And considering his stance on where a fukutaicho should stand relative to their captain, Shuuhei rather doubted the older man would bed a subordinate, not when one took into consideration that most officers would never dare to decline the advances of a taicho. The few that did found themselves skipped over for promotions, or an excuse was found to demote them, or on extremely rare occasions—and these cases were almost impossible to prove, though no one doubted their occurrence—fell victim to ‘accidents’ or ‘Hollow attacks’ or ‘training mishaps’. And lower-ranked officers never pursued higher-ranked ones, not unless that superior officer made some sort of clear indication that such pursuit would be welcomed. Anything else would be career suicide—or actual suicide, depending on the officer in question.

So no, Shuuhei had better get his act together and banish all these disturbing, absurd little fantasies about his captain, before his taicho figured out his lieutenant’s stupid little crush—even if said crush wasn’t exactly little anymore, _especially_ since said crush was no longer a little, manageable thing. If Muguruma-taicho ever found out, dismissal from his position would be the least of his worries—

“—hei. Hey, com’n, snap out of it, kid!”

A broad, warm palm closed over his shoulder, shaking him gently, and he realized he’d zoned out once again, and that his captain was trying to get his attention.

Face heating under that golden-eyed stare, he shifted minutely so the older man’s hand slipped off his shoulder, making sure that it didn’t seem as if he had done so intentionally. Muguruma-san’s temper was formidable, and easily roused by the littlest of things, and he knew shrugging off his hand as if his touch burned would be taken the wrong way by his captain.

“My apologies, taicho,” he said quietly, striving to keep his expression neutral but not closed off. Kira had once told him that if he made his face _too_ blank, it immediately gave away the fact that he was hiding something.

The Vizard’s brow furrowed. “You okay? We can go back to Urahara’s if you’re not feeling up to dealing with the idiots today.”

Like that would help. Right now, the Vizards offered a welcome distraction from his inappropriate thoughts and unruly body. The slim-fitting jeans the shopkeeper had given him lacked the voluminous folds of his hakama, and it would be immediately apparent if he grew aroused. Standing so close to his captain, he could detect the faintest hint of the soap he had used earlier that morning—bright, sharp lemongrass—layered over a rich, loamy scent reminiscent of earth after a heavy rainfall, and Shuuhei could feel his body stir in ill-timed interest.

He offered his captain what he hoped passed for a tight smile, but knew it looked more like a grimace.

“I didn’t sleep well last night, but I’m fine,” he answered.

The Vizard’s frown deepened, the weight of his gaze almost tangible. “There’s no need to run yourself down, Shuu—Hisagi. We can just as easily go see those idiots later, or tomorrow—”

“I’m fine, taicho. My body isn’t quite used to being able to grab more than an hour or two of sleep a night and is still adjusting to the lighter work load.”

His captain’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and for a breathless moment he thought that the older man had seen through his lie—but the older man finally nodded and the lines marking his forehead eased.

“Just let me know if you want to go. I know how exhausting being around the rest of them can be, and they won’t be offended when— _if_ —you decide you’ve had enough of them,” he said.

Shuuhei let out the breath he’d been holding, his own eyebrows drawing down in a frown that hinted at the spark of irritation his captain’s words engendered. Tired or not—and he _was_ tired, exhausted actually—he could handle a day in the Vizards’ company. He wasn’t about to let them get to him again, not in front of his captain.

“Yes, taicho,” he answered, and forced his feet to move. As much as he didn’t want to go to the warehouse to endure another day of being ignored by most of the Vizards save for Kuna-san, who seemed to think he was her personal doll, he didn’t want his captain to think he was unable to fulfill his duties as a fukutaicho and change his mind about keeping him. He’d endured far worse things in Rukongai and his early years in the Academy than putting up with someone playing with his hair and some silent treatment. And hopefully, with his captain there, the Vizards would perhaps decide to stop making his mission difficult and cooperate for once.

He had a feeling he would be doomed to disappointment, but as they say, hope springs eternal—or something like that.

Squaring his shoulders and hoping he didn’t look like a man heading to his own execution, he lengthened his stride to catch up to his captain, who was waiting with thinly veiled impatience a few yards down the mostly-deserted street.

 

Kensei allowed Shuuhei to knock on the warehouse door. Even if the ‘mission’ was a farce, he knew his lieutenant took his duties seriously—and he didn’t want to run the risk of making Shuuhei think his captain thought him incapable or lacking in any way.

Plus, it allowed the older man to fall back a step or two and devote several moments’ time to appreciating the way soft, worn denim clung to Shuuhei’s mouth-wateringly perfect, gorgeous ass. His palms fairly itched with the need to touch, to hold; he wanted to bend his fukutaicho across the nearest flat surface and worship every inch of his long, lean body, spread him out and taste him, open him up with fingers and tongue…

The battered metal door squealed on its hinges as it was yanked open by a scowling Hiyori, jolting him from his reverie. Shuuhei was offering the tiny blond a deep, respectful bow—and the tiny blond Vizard aimed a smirk at Kensei over the younger man’s head, obviously having caught the direction of his gaze.

“Took you two idiots long enough to get here. People generally go on romantic strolls at night, you know, not in the middle of the day,” she said, spinning on her heel and stalking back inside, muttering under her breath. Kensei was treated to the beautiful sight of a blush creeping across his lieutenant’s face.

“I—She—Dammit!”

Well fuck, who knew Shuuhei could blush? And his sputtering was fucking adorable. The Vizard-taicho clapped his second on the back and offered what he hoped was a sufficiently sympathetic grin.

“Don’t worry about her, Hisagi. She teases everyone she likes.”

He received a look of patent disbelief. “That’s her ‘liking’ me? I’d hate to see what she does to people she doesn’t like,” the younger man said, eliciting a laugh from his captain.

“Yes, you really would. Com’n, sooner we get in there, the sooner we can leave and maybe relax a bit,” he replied, curbing the urge to rest his hand at the small of his fukutaicho’s back as he ushered him inside. Despite the fact that he’d decided to woo his lieutenant, he wasn’t about to do so in front of the other Vizards and risk them ruin things before they even started with their teasing—and they _would_ tease them both. Kensei because they loved pissing him off, and Shuuhei because fuck, who could resist making the kid blush and stammer and look more adorable than he had any right to be?

Still, he found himself walking just a little too close to his lieutenant, halving the usual distance he kept between them, smirking to himself when Shuuhei’s breath hitched and grey-green eyes flashed up to his face and away, a soft flush of pink edging along high cheekbones. His Hollow crowed inside his head, but for once he didn’t bother trying to shut it up. He was pretty damned pleased with himself too. He’d resigned himself to having to wait until they had left the Vizards’ warehouse before he could implement the first stage of ‘Operation: Woo Shuuhei’, but was quickly revising his original timeframe. As long as he kept it subtle, he could work on deepening his fukutaicho’s awareness towards him while they were at the warehouse without his former companions picking up on what he was doing.

‘ _Kensei, you’re not exactly known for subtlety. I think you should stick with your original plan and wait until we leave. Hisagi will not respond well to our companions’ teasing, and you risk losing him completely,’_ Tachikaze interjected, his disapproval fairly flooding the Vizard’s Inner World.

_‘ **Eh, don’t listen to him. I still say you need to just toss him down and claim him. None of this wishy-washy ‘wooing’ crap. We could have had him purring under us months ago if you’d just listened to me and Tachi and pulled your head outta your ass. At this rate, we’ll all be dead of old age before you actually nut-up and claim him properly, or he’ll leave us and find someone else who ain’t too scared to take what’s on offer,’**_ his Hollow sneered.

‘Both of you need to shut the fuck up,’ he snarled, and surprisingly, they did. They’d been over the night before, into the early hours of the morning, when he’d been lying awake in bed trying to figure out the best way to win his brat, and he’d spent those sleepless hours shooting down their suggestions—his Hollow’s as overly lecherous, and Tachikaze’s as ridiculously conservative.

He mentally shook off the irritating mix of heavy disapproval and barely-leashed, violence-tinged sulking swirling about his Inner World, focusing instead on more important things—such as the blur of white-and-green, hyperactive ex-fukutaicho barreling towards himself and Shuuhei.

“SHUU-SHUU-CHAN!”

His current lieutenant winced, a whole range of emotions flitting across his face before he schooled his expression back to his default careful neutrality—if Kensei hadn’t been watching him so closely, he would have missed the fascinating mix of embarrassment, resignation, and a tiny thread of pleasure the younger man felt at Mashiro’s enthusiastic greeting—and offered the tiny terror a needlessly deep, overly formal bow of greeting. Kensei wanted to haul him back upright, but knew doing so would be overstepping. Shuuhei was, at times, frustratingly proper. The older man blamed it on the stuffy atmosphere of the Gotei and a childhood spent clawing his way out of Rukongai, and wondered, not for the first time, if things would have been different had Kensei and the others not fallen victim to Aizen’s plans all those years ago. Then again, if events hadn’t occurred the way they had, it was probable that he wouldn’t have met Shuuhei at all. Who knows what would have happened to the strong, gorgeous kid who had defended his friends so fiercely from a Hollow but burst into tears once the danger had passed. Like in Rukongai was hard; life in the higher districts more so. Add in the fact that even as a kid Shuuhei had had pretty strong reiatsu, making him an attractive meal prospect for a Hollow and one of the rare souls that needed to actually eat food—well, that he survived at all was a miracle in itself.

Shuuhei’s hero-worship of him had always been an uncomfortable thing, but Kensei was suddenly aware that it had helped Shuuhei survive his childhood, and driven him to doggedly pursue a position in the Gotei, despite his humble background. That he had risen through the ranks as quickly as he had—yes, maybe Tousen’s machinations had been a part of it, but mostly it had been because of his own hard work, stubborn determination, and a fierce need to live up to a dizzyingly high level of self-imposed expectation—only served to underscore the strength that lie at the younger man’s core, and brought out a side of Kensei that he didn’t know he even possessed. He wanted to spend the rest of his life cherishing the beautiful, incredible man that was currently putting up with his former lieutenant’s inane chatter with a level of patience that Kensei could never hope to achieve. It took every ounce of willpower he didn’t know he had to keep his hands to himself; he was fairly itching with the need to take his fukutaicho somewhere much more private and make up for all the time they had lost due to his own stupid need to deny what lay between them.

“I see you came along to protect your precious fukutaicho from the big, bad wolves, Kensei.”

Shinji’s grin was wide and mocking, brown eyes glinting up at the taller, broader Vizard as he strolled casually across the open space that served as the Vizards’ common room. Kensei scowled, darting a quick glance at his lieutenant, but Shuuhei was focused on Mashiro—or he was ignoring Shinji’s jibe. Clamping a gloved hand around the blond’s bicep, he dragged Shinji away from his second.

“Leave him alone, Shinji. You got a problem with me, you take it up with me, not him,” he growled, once he had dragged the former captain far enough away from any potential eavesdroppers. He didn’t want Shuuhei to feel as if he believed him incapable of handling himself, but at the same time, he wanted to protect his fukutaicho from Shinji’s rapier tongue.

Shinji shook off his hand, aiming a glower up at the silver-haired man as he made a show of rubbing his arm. But his expression turned serious a heartbeat later. “I don’t have a problem with either of you, Kensei. I was just teasing. You _do_ look like a guard dog, hovering around him the way you are. You want to keep your infatuation a secret, you need to stop growling at everyone who comes near him.”

Kensei scoffed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it ain’t ‘infatuation’, idiot. And I don’t hover.”

Shinji raised a brow. “No? You were practically on his heels when the two of you came in. As oblivious as he is—and he can give Kurosaki a run for his money in that department—even he’s not _that_ blind. Keep acting like this and he’s gonna figure out you want to bend him over and fuck that truly perfect ass permanently stupid—which, by the way, looks particularly edible in those jeans. I do hope, for your sake, that he doesn’t dress like that back in Soul Society. You’d fending off his admirers in droves.”

Kensei managed to swallow back his instinctive growl, but only just.

“His uniform needed repair and Kisuke loaned him some of Kurosaki’s clothes. And his ass is none of your business.”

The blond smiled slowly. “Never thought I’d see the day when the great Muguruma Kensei would fall prey to the green-eyed monster.”

Kensei bristled, temper simmering just under the surface as he stared down the Vizards’ de facto leader. “Show some respect, Hirako. Shuuhei is a highly capable and valued officer of the Gotei—of _my_ division—not some pretty-faced, empty-headed eye candy here for your entertainment. Start treating him as such.”

Brown eyes gleamed, though Kensei wasn’t sure if Shinji was laughing at him or not—for once, the toothy smile aimed up at him lacked its usual smirking twist. “Of course, Muguruma-taicho. We never doubted his capabilities as a fukutaicho. Anyone can see that he’s wound tighter than a spring…we just thought we’d help loosen him up a bit, before he winds up finally snapping and going on a rampage across the Gotei.”

Kensei frowned at the blond, both at being called ‘Muguruma-taicho’ and at the other man’s assessment of Shuuhei. The kid was overly tense, yeah, but hardly the type to go off on a rampage. He opened his mouth to say so, but Shinji forestalled him.

“You _have_ seen his shikai, right? Hisagi-san might act all calm and collected, but that’s just what he wants everyone to see. If Tousen hadn’t gotten his hands on him, he would have fit right into the 11 th with that zanpakutou of his. I bet he’s a sight to see when he lets loose completely.”

Kensei’s frown deepened. Yeah, he’d seen Shuuhei’s shikai, and knew all about the damage Tousen had done to the relationship being Shinigami and zanpakutou spirit; the kid was less hesitant to use it, but he still preferred to rely on its bound form and kido when fighting. Maybe Shinji had a valid point.

“We’re working on it,” he said curtly, not wanting the other Vizard to see that he had scored a point. He didn’t like hearing that they’d been making Shuuhei’s life difficult on this pseudo-mission, but if wasn’t being done out of some misplaced anger at Kensei, but because they actually thought Shuuhei needed a safe outlet to let loose—their Hollows made them stronger, faster, and harder to kill—well, maybe he had misjudged his former companions, and maybe he could stop feeling quite so guilty about sending Shuuhei on this farce of a mission.

“Well, that and it’s been awhile since we had fresh meat to spar with. I figure if we piss him off enough, Hisagi-chan will offer more of a challenge. We’ll still wipe the floor with him, but it’ll take more than a few minutes if he’s mad enough.”

And there is was—Shinji’s main reason for messing with his lieutenant. He should have known the Vizards were not nearly so altruistic. But Shinji was severely underestimating Shuuhei. Kensei’s grin was as wide and sharp as a shark smelling blood in the water.

“He’d last more than a few minutes, Shinji. He took down Arrancar and Tousen, all on his own, all without losing control. You push him too far, and he’ll be the one wiping the floor with _you_ ,” he replied, smile widening even further at the thought. Shuuhei all focused and calm in a spar was a gorgeous sight; Shuuhei finally letting go of all that ridiculous fear and truly letting loose against opponents he needn’t be afraid of hurting permanently? He shifted his stance as his cock gave an interested twitch at the mental images his traitorous brain was producing, thanking kami that his cargo pants were loose enough to hide his growing arousal. He really needed to think of something else, fast.

“So, now that I’m here you’ll be on your best behavior, right? No more silent treatment? No more teasing?” he asked, changing the subject before Shinji noticed his reaction and decided to use it as ammunition.

Shinji’s smile widened, head tilting so his eyes were shadowed by the brim of his cap, but a glint of amusement lit his gaze as he looked across the room at the tall, lean figure of Kensei’s fukutaicho.

“I suppose we can behave ourselves—with the right incentive, of course,” the blond answered, looking back at Kensei. The silver-haired Vizard narrowed his eyes.

“How about you guys behave, and I don’t kick your ass?”

If anything, the gleam in Shinji’s eyes grew sharper. “I’d like to see you try, Kensei. You’ve been off in Soul Society, sitting behind a desk doing paperwork. Shit, I bet your eye candy over there could hand you your ass these days.”

**_‘Did he just really—’_ **

_‘Yes, Shirosei, he did. Piano-toothed bastard needs a lesson in who’s the “soft” one around here,’_ Tachikaze snarled in his head, and Kensei bit back a groan, struggling to rein in his temper. Bad enough the damn Hollow was getting pissed off; Tachikaze joining in was just asking for trouble. It irritated him that Shinji was at least partially right; since his return to Soul Society, he’d had to restrain himself when training with his division. It had been some time since he’d pulled his Hollow mask and went all out in a spar.

“Do you really want to find out how rusty my skills have gotten, Shinji?” He couldn’t prevent the watery growl of his Hollow coming through, but then again, he hadn’t really tried. Maybe a good spar _was_ in order—kami knew he needed an outlet for the sexual frustration that had been dogging him for months, his hand not really doing more than taking the barest edge off.

Shinji, the bastard, just laughed, tilting his head up so the light hit him square in the face. “Nah, wouldn’t want to kick your ass in front of your boy. Might hurt your chances with ‘im. How about you and Hachi go pick up supplies and you cook us all a nice meal, eh? We kinda miss you in the kitchen, and you can show off your culinary skins to Shuu-chan there. I hear the kid likes to eat, and you know what they say—fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Kensei scowled, opened his mouth to tell Shinji to fuck off, and then stopped, blinked. That, actually, wasn’t a terrible idea. His gaze slid to Shuuhei’s lean figure, seated now on the couch beside a happily chattering Mashiro, considering. The kid was all sleek muscle and angular lines, tall and slim to the point of skinny. After he’s been reinstated as the 9th’s captain, his first order of business had been to take back the workload that was rightfully his; he’d taken one look at his new fukutaicho and had wondered how the hell the kid had managed as long as he had, doing the work of taicho, fukutaicho, and running the newspaper on top of that. The kid had looked like a zombie, all skin and bones and eyes shadowed by exhaustion and loss. It had been months before Shuuhei had managed to regain some of the weight he had lost, for the smudges of sleepless nights to fade beneath his eyes, and more than once Kensei had had to yell at his lieutenant when he’d found him asleep at his desk in the middle of the night, a half-empty cup of tea cold at his elbow and uneaten bento at the edge of his desk. His friends would tease him about eating, and there’d been disturbing rumors floating around about the 2nd division’s lieutenant and table scraps.

Cooking for Shuuhei, in the safety of a group setting, might be a step in the right direction.

“Fine. But I’m not making anything too fancy, and I’m not paying for supplies. You want me to cook, you have to provide the food,” he said at last, looking back down at Shinji. The blond grinned at him.

“Sure thing, Kensei. We even saved your apron for you.”

Kensei groaned, and hoped Shuuhei didn’t laugh at the sight of his captain wearing a frilly pink apron.


	6. Matters of Consent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...And then again, sometimes idiot friends take things way too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: For purposes of plot, things are done here that aren’t Safe, Sane, or Consensual. Yes, the character in question does know better, and it will be addressed in the next and final chapter.   
> A/N 2: Okay, this was supposed to be the final chapter, but it got incredibly long, and so I decided to split the chapter into two. I swear there is only one more chapter, and it’s almost done being written. It should be posted sometime later in the evening, if I can sit still that long to finish it. Again, thank you to all my fans, and especially thanks to OwnedByACat, who made finishing this fic possible. Enjoy, and as always, comments are always welcome.

Seated on the couch he’d grown to think of as his particular seat in the Vizards’ warehouse, Shuuhei was getting his ass handed to him by the former fukutaicho of the 9th in a game of Seven Bridge. To be honest, while he usually enjoyed the game, and was fairly adept at its play, he wasn’t exactly offering much of a challenge to his opponent. He’d been distracted by the presence of his captain standing across the room with Hirako-san, the two quietly talking; Mashiro-san, as the tiny green-haired Vizard had insisted he call her, had slapped down a meld consisting of the 9, 10, Jack, Queen, and King of hearts, and he’d discarded his 8 of hearts in his distraction, missing the lay-off. Mashiro-san had squealed, loud enough to drag his attention back to the game, and called ‘Chi’, laying out the rescued 8, along with a 7 and the 6 of hearts. Shuuhei bit back his groan and forced himself to pay attention to the game; the small woman would make him pay for his distraction, probably in a long hair-styling session. The last thing he wanted was his captain watching him get his hair put up in tails with bows and ribbons. The mental image alone was horrifying.

After a few minutes his play improved, and he laid out two sets and a meld that had Mashiro-san pouting up at him from across the table. And then Muguruma-taicho had come over to tell him he was off on a grocery run with Ushodo-san, frowning down at Shuuhei and his ex-lieutenant when he saw what they were doing. Shuuhei was guiltily reminded that he wasn’t there to play games with one of his hosts, though he wanted to argue that Mashiro-san was impossible to say ‘no’ to, and playing a card game was a hell of a lot better than having her play with his hair while everyone else ignored him. At this point, he didn’t even know what he was supposed to be asking them, and his captain hadn’t given him any indication that he wanted him to do anything special. The other Vizards were still ignoring him, going about their own business as they had the past three days, and he didn’t want the humiliation of trying to talk to them and having them ignore him pointedly in from of Muguruma-san.

His game took another turn for the worse after his captain left the warehouse with the former vice captain of the Kido Corps; he kept replaying the events of the morning over and over in his head, searching for a reason for the older man’s sudden thawing towards him. His face warmed every time he remembered how quickly his captain had reassured him that he was still wanted as a fukutaicho—that he didn’t _want_ another lieutenant, just Shuuhei. He couldn’t help the way his traitorous body and heart had reacted to the unintentional innuendo—was _still_ reacting to the words—even though he knew Muguruma-san had only meant them to refer to wanting Shuuhei in a professional capacity. He’d grown used to his captain being a distraction even when he wasn’t present, but for some reason it seemed so much harder to focus on anything else since the morning’s revelations.

Lost in thought yet again, he didn’t notice that the other Vizards had circled the couch until he was being hauled out of his seat.

His hand of cards scattered as he was dragged up and over the back of the couch by Otoribashi-san and Aikawa-san, raining down around them as he fought their hold.

Was this why his captain had left?

Was their talk that morning in Urahara-san’s kitchen just that—talk?

Despair crashed over him, a wave so strong that he felt himself go limp—allowing the Vizards to carry him easily from the large open common room and into a hallway whose entrance had been half-hidden behind a large screen-printed wall hanging that was a blur of psychedelic colors out of the corner of his eye.

“Fuck, thought he’d be heavier,” one of the Vizards grunted—it sounded like Aikawa-san.

“Kensei needs to take better care of his things,” Mashiro-san chirped from somewhere behind Shuuhei’s head, and the fukutaicho tensed at being called a ‘thing’—and Muguruma-san’s.

“Not his,” he grumbled, half-heartedly tugging against the hands and arms on his legs and shoulders, and a soft, vicious curse sounded just above his head as his upper half dipped lower than his bottom half before he was righted.

“This will go much easier if you just stay still, Hisagi-san,” Otoribashi-san said crisply, and Shuuhei opened his eyes—he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them—to see the pretty, older man frowning down at him, his long hair cascading over his shoulders to tickle the tip of Shuuhei’s nose and brush against his lips. The dark-haired Shinigami snarled, twisting hard against their hold, and for a single breathless moment, he was free of their hands—until he crashed down to the floor, landing hard on his shoulder and slamming his head against smooth concrete hard enough to make his vision dip and swim.

“Shit—why’d you have to drop him, idiot? Fuck, is he hurt? Is anything broken?” Hirako-san asked, his voice coming from an open doorway off the hall, and Shuuhei caught a glimpse of his concerned face before his view was blocked by an annoyed-looking Aikawa-san, who hauled him up to his feet. Surprisingly gentle hands combed through his hair, feeling his head where it had struck the floor. He didn’t feel any wetness that would indicate blood, and the fingers probing his skull didn’t elicit any sharp pain which would indicate a serious injury—which the owner of said hands must have assumed as well, because he was suddenly airborne once again, the arms and hands holding him much more tightly than before.

He was carried through the open door, then lowered carefully to his feet. The brief glance he got at his surroundings indicated it was bedroom, though a sparsely decorated one. Shuuhei’s own quarters back in Soul Society looked similar, but unlike the vice captain’s spartan room, the bedroom he currently found himself standing in seemed like it had been abandoned.

Oh. _Oh_ fuck _no._

His worst fears were confirmed a moment later when a movement by the bed drew his attention to Yadomaru-san, who was standing beside the Western-style piece of furniture holding several coils of dark-colored rope in her hands, a tiny smile playing over her normally serious mouth as she looked on.

“Strip him, then get him over here on the bed. We don’t have a lot of time before Kensei and Hachi return, so we have to work fast,” she said.

Shuuhei tried to bolt, but was overpowered easily. Aikawa-san and Otoribashi-san had his tee shirt up and over his head before he could do little more than blink, but they didn’t pull the soft fabric all the way off of him; instead, Shuuhei found his arms were tangled in the well-worn but still strong folds of cotton and pinned behind him, a strong hand gripping the twisted material at his wrists to prevent him from pulling his arms free. Small, strong hands clamped around his calf, just above the top of his boot, and he looked down with wide eyes to find Mashiro-san kneeling before him.

“Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be, Shuu-Shuu-chan. Lift your foot.” She didn’t wait for him to obey—not that he would have—but yanked his leg up with a strength that belied her small size. His boot came off with a tug, and was tossed aside as she switched to his other leg, repeating the movement. She was a hell of lot stronger than she looked; even though he tried to pull his leg away, she just yanked at his ankle, sending him off-balance. She pulled his boot and sock off as Aikawa-san and Otoribashi-san caught him before he took another spill on the floor—he caught the former glowering down at the small woman kneeling at his feet from the corner of his eye—but instead of righting him again, they took on more of his weight. Long, bony hands belonging to Hirako-san went to his belt, unbuckling the clasp and hauling it free of the belt loops with a flourish. Shuuhei panicked, knowing what came next, tried to kick out and twist away, but only succeeded in setting himself further off-balance. He flinched as the blond leader of the Vizards popped each button of his jeans open, the worn denim offering little resistance. Within minutes his pants were hauled down to his knees, where Mashiro-san took over and tugged them off completely.

Naked, shivering with a mix of fear and humiliation, he was marched over to the low, wide bed and guided down onto his stomach, the tee shirt finally removed from his arms—but a weight was settling on his hips, and hands pinned his shoulders down to the mattress, rendering him immobile. Another pair of hands—he had no idea who they belonged to, buzzing panic making it hard for him to focus, let alone _think_ —folded his arms behind him, forearm to forearm, wrist to opposite elbow, but though he expected to feel the harsh kiss of rope around his pinned arms, for a long moment it seemed as if they were content to merely hold him there.

And then he felt the tickle of something soft and cool at the front of his neck, small, warm hands cupping his jaw and lifting his head, and his panic intensified as he felt the rope wind around his neck—once, then again—and be drawn snug against his throat, just tight enough to be felt with each shaking breath.

“Breathe, Shuuhei, or you’re going to pass out.”

Yadomaru-san’s voice was sharp and calm in his ear, the weight on top of him shifting at the same time telling him that it was she who was seated across his hips. He fought to slow his breathing, not because he had any desire to obey her, but because he was afraid of what they would do to him while he was unconscious; at least this way he still had a chance to escape if he was given an opening.

More rope went around his forearms, smooth coils looped around his wrists and just above his elbows, and everything pulled tight—far tighter than the cord around his neck; and then the rope circling his throat drew tighter, still not enough to cut off his air completely, just enough that he couldn’t quite get a full breath and his head was starting to buzz. He barely noticed her lifting off of him, or the hands folding his legs at the knee so his ankles touched his ass. More rope, winding tightly around his legs, binding calf to thigh, ankles close together and tied to his forearms by another tie. He could feel himself sinking down into a strange, soft lassitude, his limbs heavy yet at the same time, curiously light. He’d never been into bondage, but had a few acquaintances who were practitioners of the lifestyle—Rukongai rats like himself, who didn’t have enough reiatsu or any at all and therefore weren’t eligible to test for entry to the Academy; they had escaped the streets into various brothels, the prettier ones to the high class establishments frequented by nobles and the wealthy in the lower districts of the Rukongai, places where they were pampered and petted and taken very good care off; Shuuhei, if he hadn’t met Muguruma-taicho that fateful day a century before, wouldn’t have wound up in one of those nicer establishments, he wasn’t pretty like some of his friends had been. He’d never understood the appeal of letting someone tie him up; that implied a level of trust that he didn’t feel towards anyone. And yet here he was, melting down into the bed, allowing them to bind him against his consent without putting up a fight.

Shame flooded through him, driving away the illusory sense of safety that had been stealing over him.

He renewed his struggles, his limbs pulling hard at the ropes, but they held fast. Hands on his bicep and on his opposite him, flipping him over, and he snarled up at them when his legs were bent at the hip, more ties binding them to a kind of harness of ropes crisscrossing his torso, holding him spread wide and open to their gazes.

“Should we prep him?” Yadomaru-san asked, standing beside the bed, examining his bound form with a critical eye. He glowered up at her.

“Let me go,” he growled, his voice coming out raspier than usual thanks to the tie around his neck. Hirako-san moved around the bed to stand beside her, his brown gaze just as assessing as hers as he looked over their handiwork. He snorted, cast a sidelong glance her way.

“Only if you want Kensei to cut your hands off entirely. Nah, we’ll leave him the pleasure of opening his boy up,” he said.

Shuuhei’s eyes narrowed. “Muguruma-san isn’t the one you have to worry about, Hirako-san. When I get free, you’ll be dealing with _me_ , not him.”

Again the blond snorted, turning to riffle through a basket Shuuhei hadn’t noticed on the bedside table. When he turned back, he held a contraption made of leather straps with a weird looking, thick protrusion several inches long and half-again as wide sticking out in the middle. It took a moment for Shuuhei to process what he was looking at, but when he did, his eyes went wide and he tried to scramble away as the Vizard reached out with his free hand. Bound as he was, he didn’t get very far.

Curling bony fingers around his chin, the older man tilted the helpless fukutaicho’s head back, bringing the gag towards his face. Shuuhei jerked out of his hold, sank sharp, even white teeth into the Vizard’s hand as it came close to his mouth, glaring up at the man menacingly. The blond yanked his hand away with a curse, eyes wide and tearing at the pain. Shuuhei tasted blood on his tongue, grinned savagely up at the other man—and yelped when long fingers curled tight in his hair, jerking his head back hard enough to hurt. Yadomaru-san pinched his nostrils closed with her free hand, and though he knew what she was doing, and told himself she wouldn’t really let him suffocate, she didn’t let up. Finally unable to hold his breath any longer, lungs burning and desperate for oxygen, he gasped for air—and his mouth was filled with cool, unyielding rubber that pressed down his tongue and forced his mouth to open wide around the intrusion, the tip just tickling the back of his throat. He tried to spit it back out, but the buckles on the straps were already being fastened tight behind his head, holding it in place. He glowered up at them—the others had left at some point, leaving only Hirako-san and Yadomaru-san in the room with him—but could feel the hated sting of tears pricking at the backs of his eyelids, his vision blurring as shame and humiliation flooded through him.

“Shhh, it’s going to be alright, Shuuhei. You’ll thank us later, I promise,” Yadomaru-san murmured, smoothing one hand through his hair, combing through the messy strands tenderly. He snorted, biting down on the fake cock filling his mouth in lieu of gritting his teeth. Why the hell would he thank them for this humiliation? Treaty or not, when he got free of his bonds he was going to unleash Kazeshini and slaughter them all.

His zanpakutou, usually so vocal, had been strangely silent throughout the whole ordeal.

‘Kaze?’ he sent a thread of awareness towards the spirit, only to come up against some sort of block. Where his Inner World should be, there was just a wall.

He looked up at the Vizards with wide, panicked eyes, and Hirako-san huffed out a shaky laugh, still clutching the hand Shuuhei had bitten. Blood dripped between his fingers, but the older man didn’t seem to notice. “You’ve been here for four days, and you’re just now realizing you can’t reach your Inner World? I guess the rumors about the discord between you and your zanpakutou were correct.” The Vizard paused, as if expecting a reaction, but Shuuhei just glared at him. The older man shrugged carelessly, not seeming to mind that Shuuhei was glowering up at him with an intensity that, if the gods had been kind, should have seared a hole through his head. “Sorry, probably should have mentioned it earlier, but the protections on this place block out all sorts of things. The only place in the warehouse you can reach your zanpakutou or use kido is in our training grounds. I was going to mention it if you asked, but you never did. So I figured it wasn’t important.”

Not important? No, that wasn’t something that Shuuhei had a right to know about from the moment of his arrival—not at all. He mentally added Urahara-san to his shit list. The shopkeeper should have mentioned it before letting his guest waltz into a warehouse filled with Hollowfied ex-Shinigami who had every reason to resent Soul Society and any of the Gotei’s officers.

Busy glaring at the blond Vizard, he wasn’t paying attention to Yadomaru-san—at least, not until she moved back into his field of vision.

“Shinji, help me move him up the bed and prop him against the pillows. We want him to be the first thing Kensei sees when he comes into the room.”

Shuuhei’s eyes widened, the horror of his situation dousing his previous anger. He was in Kensei’s old room. The Vizards had gotten the jump on him and trussed him up in the most humiliating manner possible, and Kensei was going to find him.

His taicho was going to see him like this, naked and shivering and helpless as a babe.

His taicho was going to see that Shuuhei wasn’t strong enough to be his lieutenant, that he was worthless—

The tears didn’t just prick his eyelids and blur his vision, they spilled free entirely, despite his desperate attempt to keep them at bay.

Hirako-san moved around the far side of the bed, standing directly opposite Yadomaru-san, and they both reached for him at the same time. They tugged him up, shifting him back towards the head of the bed, then carefully lowered him back down. A nest of pillows cradled his back, keeping him propped upright at a slight angle so anyone who came in could see him fully on display. Yadomaru-san patted him on the shoulder.

“Just stay still and you’ll be fine, Shuuhei. Kensei should be back soon, and he’ll take good care of you.”

Her words left him cold, nausea swimming in the pit of his stomach.

“Com’n, Lisa. Let’s leave little Shuu-chan to stew for a bit,” her companion said, and smiled thinly at Shuuhei. “Besides, I gotta clean out this wound and bandage it. I still can’t believe he _bit_ me.”

The ex-fukutaicho laughed, heading for the door. “Told you he would be a biter. You shouldn’t have put your hand that close to his mouth. It’s your own fault that he got you.”

The blond muttered something under his breath, but tipped a wink at Shuuhei, his eyes glittering and sharp in the shadow of his hat. “See you later, Shuu-chan.”

And with that, the two left him to his thoughts, and the sickening lurch of panic that was clawing its way up his throat as he imagined his captain’s reaction when he discovered his lieutenant had gotten himself into such an embarrassing predicament.

Like hell he was going to just sit here and wait around like some damsel in distress.

They’d left his clothing in a neatly folded pile on an old wooden desk pushed up against the wall facing the bed, his boots lined up on the floor alongside. If he got free— _when_ he got free—he’d have something to cover his nakedness up with, even if it wasn’t the comfortable armor of his uniform.

He pulled experimentally at his bonds, testing for give; the ropes circling his wrists bit more deeply into his flesh, and if he wasn’t gagged, he would be hissing in pain through his teeth. He relaxed, expecting the cords to return to return to their previous tightness, but nothing happened. The rope was far tighter than it had been when his arms had first been bound, and his fingertips were beginning to tingle. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he twisted cautiously to one side, hoping that he could reach a conveniently placed knot with his inconveniently placed hands—and managed to knock the neatly stacked pillows over, some falling over the edge of the bed, some just pushed away to one side. Losing his balance, he tipped over, landing on his side with his face half-buried in a pillow that threatened to suffocate him. He jack-knifed his body, choked as the rope around his neck pulled viciously tight, and wound up rolling onto his front. The new position pulled the cord looped around his throat even tighter, and he stupidly tried to raise himself up to take some of the pressure off his neck, but it only served to make the rope tighter.

Black spots swam in front of his eyes, his vision darkening at the edges, and he was choking. He struggled against the ropes binding him, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the growing pressure in his head, a high ringing in his ears blotting out even the sound of his guttural, muffled moans around his gag. In his panic, he barely heard the door swing open.

“Shuuhei? Shinji said you had something for— _fuck!_ ”

Somewhere far off he heard his captain’s voice, and he squeezed his eyes more tightly closed so he wouldn’t have to see the older man’s reaction.

Big, leather-clad hands clamped around his arms, biting harshly into his biceps, and he was being turned, pillows hastily shoved behind his back to prop him up. The pressure around his throat eased, allowing him to breathe again. He could feel his taicho’s fingers at the back of his head, fumbling to unbuckle the gag. Though he didn’t want to see his captain’s disappointment—or worse, disgust—he had to know. Forcing himself to look, he opened his eyes just as his captain pulled the gag out of his mouth.

Muguruma-taicho’s pupils were blown wide, his iris a thin ring of gold surrounding fathomless black as he looked first at the gag, then down at Shuuhei’s mouth, and finally, after a long, breathless moment, looked up slowly to meet his fukutaicho’s gaze. Shuuhei tried to look away, squirming with embarrassment and humiliation, shame following quickly after as his cock twitched against his thigh, but his captain turned his head back to face him with gentle fingers.

“Are you hurt?” he asked solicitously, far more calmly than Shuuhei had expected. The younger man shook his head, afraid to speak for fear of rousing the older man’s temper. The grip on his chin tightened fractionally, then eased till it was whisper-light again. His captain’s hand was shaking. “I need you to tell me you’re not hurt, Shuuhei.”

His voice shook too.

The younger man licked his lips, watched as the silver-haired Vizard’s—ex-Vizard?—eyes widened, his pupils dilating even further till the amber was all-but-gone.

“N-no.” He winced at the hoarseness of his voice, shivered at the wildness of his captain’s gaze.

“You didn’t ask them to do this.”

It wasn’t a question, but he shook his head anyway. “No, taicho.”

Finely-drawn nostrils flared, a sure sign that the older man was battling his temper. He flinched, tried to hide it, but he was laid out bare before the older man, and his taicho was watching him like a predator watches its prey. The shiver that went through him had nothing to do with the chill in the air, but Shuuhei ruthlessly tried to squash down the stirrings of arousal.

“Okay. Okay,” his captain said, in a distant voice. He released the fukutaicho’s chin, carefully drawing his hand away. The tremor in his hand was more pronounced.

“You’re shaking, taicho,” he said softly, watching the bigger man cautiously, and his captain let out a harsh bark of laughter that he bit off quickly.

“I’m trying to keep my hands to myself, Shuuhei.” The younger of the two tilted his head in confusion, trying to parse the meaning of the his captain’s words, and the other man laughed again, more softly this time, and smoothed his hands over his legs. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I had plans, you know. I told myself I would do things right, take it slow, give you time.”

Shuuhei could only look up at him in confusion, and a touch of fear. Had he been right all along? Had his captain been planning on getting rid of him?

“Taicho, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Do you want me to resign my post as your lieutenant after all?”

“No! Kami, kid—we already discussed this earlier. I don’t want another fukutaicho—I just want you. _All_ of you.”

His taicho stared down at him expectantly, seeming as if he were waiting for Shuuhei to— _oh_. Oh—but, surely he didn’t mean—?

“All of me, taicho?” He needed to be sure that he wasn’t reading too deeply into his captain’s words.

Instead of answering, the older man rolled his eyes and huffed out a sigh, then reached out and cupped Shuuhei’s face between his gloved palms.

His captain’s mouth on his was all heat and light and fire—there was nothing slow or gentle about the kiss, no room for misinterpretation. He arched into the heat of his taicho’s bigger frame, his mouth eager and hungry beneath his captain’s, nearly whining when the other man drew away.

They were both breathing hard, and his taicho’s eyes were molten gold when he met Shuuhei’s gaze.

“Do you understand now, brat?”

Shuuhei nodded dumbly, wishing his hands were free so he could drag his captain back down.

“Good. Now, as lovely as you look all tied up like this, I’m sure you want out of these ropes,” the older man said, tracing a fingertip along the topmost rope bound around his torso with a frown. Shuuhei nodded rapidly, nearly choking himself again, and his captain laughed softly, a bitter edge coloring the sound. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Shuuhei got the impression that his captain was deeply unhappy about something, though he wasn’t quite sure what, and he was afraid to ask. If he wanted him to know, he would tell him. So he kept his mouth shut and his questions behind his teeth, and allowed the older man to untie him without badgering him for answers.


	7. Necessary Communication (Or, It's About Damn Time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kensei and Shuuhei talk. (And do more than talk). FINALLY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is it everyone, the final chapter of Limits of Denial. I know it’s been a long road, and I thank everyone who had kept reading and encouraging me throughout the years. I hope you all enjoy this last installment, and the culmination of Kensei and Shuuhei’s story. Though I left room for some side pieces, at the moment I am declaring this finished. I don’t know if I will ever write anything more in this series, so I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. Again, thank you everyone, and I hope you enjoy. As always, comments are always appreciated.

It had been a long time since Kensei had taken anyone to his bed, outside the occasional no-strings night with Lisa or Shinji and on rare occasions, Rose. After he and the others had been forced into hiding, there had been a handful of casual affairs with people he’d meet in a bar or at a club, lasting at most a few weeks before things cooled off and Kensei would move on. He didn’t have a particular type either, though he recalled that many of them had slim builds and they all were pretty in their own way.

None of them could handle a candle to Shuuhei.

His body was mapped with scars he’d refused to have healed, a permanent reminder of battles won and lost, of his status as a warrior. The stretches of skin between the scars, however, was pale gold and smooth as silk, just begging to be touched and tasted.

Kensei took his time freeing Shuuhei from the ropes wound about torso and limbs, drawing out the pleasure of finally having that naked form under his hands, turning each touch into a lingering caress as he coaxed the knots undone with patience he didn’t usually display. He could have used Tachikaze to cut away the dark green silken cords, but had wanted the pleasure of unwrapping Shuuhei like a present. Yeah, he was more than a little pissed off that his former companions had done this to Shuuhei; not just that they had stripped him naked and tied him up—though he was pretty furious about that too, possessive, jealous bastard that he was—but because he’d _seen_ the misery and humiliation in his fukutaicho’s face when he’d walked into the room and discovered Shuuhei in such a state.

The kid had nearly strangled himself trying to get free, and when he saw Lisa—and he knew Lisa’s handiwork, having been trussed up by her more than once—well, she’d be lucky if he left her in pieces big enough to patch back together. What the hell had she been thinking, binding Shuuhei with ties circling his neck and then _leaving_ him by himself? Bad enough she had bound him at all, but she’d never simply ignored the basic principles of Safe, Sane, and Consensual before, and to do so to _Shuuhei_ of all people? His fukutaicho would have never consented to any of this, and as each skein of rope loosened, the skin beneath showed vivid with the red-violet marks of developing bruises. Simple murder would be too quick.

“I’m sorry, taicho.” Shuuhei’s voice, when he spoke, was raspier than usual, and Kensei’s eyes went to the gag he’d tossed aside before flicking up to his fukutaicho’s face, hoping his own face wasn’t as red as it felt. Shuuhei’s mouth stretched wide around a fake rubber cock would forever be burned into his brain as one of the most erotic things he’d ever seen; it made him wonder how it would feel stretched around his own length, if he could take Kensei down to the hilt, if he would let Kensei fuck his throat and paint his face with his seed.

Shuuhei’s expression, however, banished those mental images for the moment. The kid looked miserable, and guilty, and on the verge of tears.

Abandoning the ropes for a moment, he cupped Shuuhei’s face between his palms and pressed a tender kiss to the corner of the younger man’s mouth, stroking his thumb over one cheek.

“Shuuhei. You’re not the one who should be apologizing here. I was the idiot who sent you here, all because I was too fucking stubborn to admit that I wanted you. After I pulled my head outta my ass and admitted that you’re all I could think about, all I ever wanted since I saw you on the battlefield during the War, I came here to see if there might be a chance for something between us, or if I’d messing things up beyond redemption. If you don’t want this, and I mean _really_ want this, I will cut you loose, escort you back to the shouten, and have Urahara open a Senkaimon back to Soul Society for you to return. And if you don’t want me as your taicho anymore, I will make sure you get transferred to any division you want,” he said, drawing away so he could speak. He’d planned on taking things slow, but his former companions had screwed that up when they’d decided to take action themselves, and now it was time to lay his cards out on the table. He knew that despite the desire Shuuhei felt for him, today’s events—along with Kensei’s admission that he had sent him away on a pretense because he was too blockheaded to admit that he wanted Shuuhei as more than his lieutenant—and Shuuhei’s own insecurities might be too much for the younger man to overcome. He would honor whatever decision Shuuhei chose to make, even if it killed him.

Shuuhei didn’t answer right away, long lashes lowering to veil his eyes, and when he gently pulled away from Kensei’s touch, a vast pit of aching loss opened inside him. He hadn’t expected Shuuhei’s rejection to hurt quite so much, but once again he’d underestimated how deeply the younger man had burrowed under his skin. He nodded once, blew out a shaky breath.

“Okay. Okay,” he said, mostly to himself, and if his voice sounded as hoarse as Shuuhei’s, well, it was difficult to speak around the lump in his throat.

“Taicho, I’m not—I don’t—I can’t think when you’re touching me.” There was faintest hint of amusement lacing Shuuhei’s voice when he spoke, but when Kensei looked back up at him, he’d already schooled his expression so that it gave away nothing of what he was thinking. The older man waited, knowing that he couldn’t rush Shuuhei into speaking what was on his mind, and after a moment or two, the tension radiating through Shuuhei’s lean form went out of him. He slumped, as best as he could while his torso and arms were still bound in intricate loops of rope, and Kensei reached out without thinking, sliding his fingers beneath the cord crossing the front of his throat, his other hand unsheathing Tachikaze at his hip. Much to his surprise, Shuuhei jerked away, aiming a glower up at him through the messy tangle of his hair.

“Don’t.”

Kensei sighed, reaching out and hauling him closer.

“She shouldn’t have put any ties around your neck, kid. Not when she wasn’t going to be here to make sure you didn’t strangle yourself while trying to get loose. Just let me cut the rope and I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself after,” he explained, drawing on a well of patience that he only seemed to have in relation to his vice-captain. Shuuhei scowled at him, trying to scoot out of reach.

“I don’t want you to cut them off.” A blush heated his face, edging along sharp cheekbones and making his eyes seem even greener than they were normally. “I don’t want to be transferred to another division. _You’re_ the only taicho I have ever wanted, even before I got accepted into the Academy. I spent the past week thinking that you wanted to replace me as your fukutaicho, and it _hurt_ —but I would have left without arguing. I know serving under Tousen has made me weak in so many ways, and that a lot of people think that he only promoted me to second seat because he wanted a fukutaicho who would be completely beholden to him—and they would be right, because I _am_ weak, and I did owe everything to him—and I wouldn’t have blamed you for wanting someone else serving under you. But then you said I was the _only_ fukutaicho you wanted, and I was so fucking happy, and didn’t want to fuck things up by letting you know that I was completely in love with you, that you wouldn’t want that from me, and that you deserved better than someone like me—”

Kensei couldn’t help himself.

He sealed his mouth over Shuuhei’s, swallowing down the brat’s words before he could spill any more self-deprecation into the air between them. His kiss, unlike the one he’d pressed to the corner of Shuuhei’s lips a few moments earlier, or even the one before that, their first, was ruthless, devouring the younger man’s mouth with a hunger that had been simmering inside him for months. One hand clenched in ink-dark hair, yanking Shuuhei’s head back on the long column of his neck to bare it to his tongue and teeth; the cord around Shuuhei’s throat bit into tender flesh, not enough to cut off his air completely, just enough to make him light-headed and set the endorphins singing in his blood. He could hear Shuuhei panting breathlessly above his bent head, but the younger man was arching into his touch as much at his bindings allowed, a litany of ‘ _pleasepleaseplease’_ spilling from kiss-swollen lips as Kensei licked and nipped and mapped out the line of throat and collarbone offered up to his hungry mouth.

He knew he should slow down, that Shuuhei wasn’t in a position to be making an informed decision; he remembered how fucking _good_ the ropes could feel, how easy it was to just let go and let someone else take control, to trust that they wouldn’t let you fall too far, too deep, too fast. His sessions with Lisa had been borne of her need to assert control when the proverbial rug had been yanked out from under all their feet; he’d given her that, because he could, because they had been friends, _before_ , and it was part of his makeup to take care of the people in his life, whenever they needed it. It had cost him nothing to give himself over to her, and he’d enjoyed their play. She’d been an attentive and responsible Domme, more interested in giving pleasure than pain or humiliation, and as such, she had always been careful of him when he was subbing for her. What she had done to Shuuhei violated every rule she had drummed into Kensei’s head during their time together.

He wasn’t sure what position Shuuhei had been in when Lisa and the others had left him bound and struggling at the center of his bed; when he’d arrived Shuuhei had been on his knees, chest flat against the mattress, slowly strangling himself as he fought against his bindings. The dark green cord had been looped twice around his neck, the ends pulled down and forming part of the tie that bound Shuuhei’s wrists to his elbows; by the state of the rucked-up quilt and scattered pillows, Kensei theorized that Lisa—with the help of the others to hold him still—had originally bound him on his knees, up by the head of the bed, probably with several pillows behind him to prop him up at an angle. In his struggles, he’d most likely tipped over, and had been unable to right himself. The change in position had pulled the ropes tight across his body, and as Lisa had bound his ankles to the ties wrapping his forearms, which had been knotted into the cord around his throat, the more he fought them, the tighter they pulled.

Kensei had only managed to untie the ropes keeping Shuuhei’s long legs secured against his torso before he’d asked his question; the wraps binding thigh to calf and ankle to forearm were still in place, as were the ropes around his torso and neck. He’d need to turn him on his side or front to unfasten the rest, or cut the entire thing apart with Tachikaze. As much as he loved seeing Shuuhei bound so prettily, the younger man was in no state to consent to anything at the moment. The ropes had to go, even if Shuuhei had changed his mind about Kensei freeing him.

Reluctantly pulling away—earning a near-whine of disapproval from the younger man—he unsheathed Tachikaze and slipped the blade between Shuuhei’s skin and the silken cord, his zanpakutou slicing easily through the ropes wrapped around his legs. Shuuhei jerked, dragging Kensei’s attention away from his task, and he looked up to see his fukutaicho frowning at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, bluntly, and Shuuhei’s frown deepened.

“You’re cutting Yadomaru-san’s rope. Won’t she get upset?”

Kensei snorted. This kid was going to be the death of him. “First of all, I don’t care if Lisa gets upset. Second of all, they’re not hers—they’re mine.”

“What?”

Kensei sighed, looked back down as he cut cleanly through the rope securing Shuuhei’s other leg, laying Tachi aside on the bed so he could help Shuuhei straighten his freed limbs. Dark bruises were already blooming against the pale skin, and he scowled down at the sight even as he rubbed each briskly to help get the blood flowing again.

“The rope is mine. I—,” he paused, unsure how to tell Shuuhei that he’d bought the stuff because it matched his eyes, that he’d let himself fantasize about Shuuhei before he’d realized who he was, before he’d become his captain and Kensei had decided that the kid was off-limits, even in fantasies. But looking into those dark, feline eyes staring back at him, he knew that Shuuhei deserved to know the truth. “I bought it right after the War, before the Old Man asked me to come back as captain of your division and I told myself I couldn’t have you.”

It was hard, trying to find words for what he had felt, what he had wanted, especially since he had only just come to terms with his feelings for Hisagi Shuuhei a few days ago. He was no good with words, preferring his actions to speak for him, but in this instance, words were necessary. His fukutaicho was smart, but like Shinji had commented earlier, breathtakingly oblivious when it came to certain things.

“This,” he picked up a severed hank of rope, running it through his fingers in an unmistakable caress, “is not something I do lightly, or with a casual partner.”

He laid the rope aside with care, then smoothed his emptied hand along the long stretch of golden skin still crisscrossed with dark green cord, cupping Shuuhei’s sharp-angled jaw in the cradle of his palm as he settled above the younger man, making sure to keep most of his weight off his fukutaicho’s still bound figure.

“Then you and Yadomaru-san—” Shuuhei began, and Kensei shook his head.

“Lisa has only ever been a friend, though she was the one who introduced me to the BDSM lifestyle.” Shuuhei’s eyes shuttered at the admission, and Kensei hurriedly continued. “Not like that, Shuuhei. _I_ was the sub in our sessions, because she needed to feel in control. When we fled Soul Society, we all had to find ways to cope with the loss of our former lives, and Lisa was hit especially hard. She hadn’t just lost her place as a fukutaicho, she lost her lover and a child she had looked at as her own. As her friend, I couldn’t just stand by and watch her self-destruct, not when I could do something to help.”

Shuuhei’s closed-off expression eased. “So you and Yadomaru-san are just friends.”

Kensei dipped his head to steal a soft, slow kiss, fighting the urge to make it deeper, and levered himself back up to his knees, retrieving Tachikaze from the rumpled covers so he could finish freeing his fukutaicho. “I thought we were. But after she did this—,” he slid his fingers beneath the lower edge of the rope-harness, lifting it away from Shuuhei’s skin and slipping Tachi’s blade beneath to cut it, “She’s at the top of my shit list. The others are all idiots, and I’ll be having words with them for their role in what they did today, but Lisa knows better. Not just because I’m closest to her, and she knows I hate people interfering in my business—kami only knows they’ve all learned that lesson over the past century we were stuck here—but because she’s a Domme, and there are certain rules you just don’t break.”

As cold steel parted silk cord, reddened, irritated skin was bared to Kensei’s eyes, fanning the flames of his anger. Shuuhei could have been seriously injured by Lisa’s callousness disregard for safety.

Shuuhei had lowered his gaze to watch him cut away the ropes, veiling his expression once more with the lacey fan of his eyelashes, but _something_ flashed across his face, too quickly for Kensei to interpret.

“She didn’t hurt me, taicho,” he said quietly, and the older man had to pause and draw in a steadying breath, fighting a need to go hunt Lisa down and throttle her immediately, instead of waiting until he had taken care of Shuuhei.

“She didn’t have your consent to do this to you. She bound you in a position that should never be used on an inexperienced partner, and she left you here alone. You were strangling when I came in, Shuuhei, and I shudder to think about what could have happened if I hadn’t gotten here when I did. How is that ‘not hurting’ you?” he asked. He hooked his fingers under the cord wrapped around Shuuhei’s neck, but there wasn’t enough give to slip Tachikaze’s blade underneath. Laying his zanpakutou aside once more, he met Shuuhei’s gaze squarely. “I need to turn you over so I can cut the rest away. It’s not going to be comfortable, and you need to keep your legs and arms as still as possible, or you’ll start choking yourself again. Okay?”

Kensei waited for a nod, but Shuuhei just frowned at him.

“She told me to relax and not struggle, taicho, and I didn’t listen,” the younger man said, and Kensei lifted a brow. _Unbelievable._ The kid was actually defending Lisa, even after all this. He didn’t know whether he should be proud of the kid for being so magnanimous, or irritated at his stubbornness.

“Doesn’t matter. _You’re_ not the one at fault here,” he said shortly, eyeing his lieutenant’s position and calculating how best to roll him over without having the remaining rope tighten around his throat again. After a half-second, he scooted backwards till he cleared Shuuhei’s legs, then slipped off the side of the bed for better leverage. Shuuhei wasn’t particularly heavy, but he was all solid, lean muscle, and still awkwardly bound. “I’m going to roll you over, okay? Don’t tense up, and don’t try to help. I got you.”

Shuuhei bit his lip, brow creasing in a frown—the kid was going to get permanent wrinkles with all the frowning he was doing—but he nodded hesitantly, allowing his body to relax back against the bed, closing his eyes. The silver-haired taicho of the 9th division gazed down at his fukutaicho, laid out before him wrapped in silk rope as green as his eyes, all sleek golden skin and lean limbs on display in open invitation, and the need to lay claim to the younger man, body and soul, swelled huge and hot inside him, stealing his breath.

It was hard to stay angry at his former companions, not when they had given him this.

That dark head tilted, brilliant green iris just barely visible between the dark fan of eyelashes as Shuuhei peered up at him curiously, recalling Kensei to his task. He could indulge later, once Shuuhei was freed and claimed; he was certain that a well-loved and satiated Shuuhei would be just as enticing as he was in the burgeoning stages of arousal.

“Taicho, you’re staring.” Green eyes opened fully, the color deeper and closer to emerald than their usual gray-green shade, made even greener by the contrasting flush that had edged along sharp cheekbones.

“You’re beautiful.” He winced as soon as the words left his mouth, feeling his own face heat at the blunt admission, and for a long moment, Shuuhei could only stare up at him in surprise. The blush started from his chest and rose quickly to his throat and face, and Kensei was pretty sure his own face was as pink as Shuuhei’s.

“Taicho, I thought you were untying me,” Shuuhei said finally, a tiny smile curling the edges of his mouth temptingly. Kensei wanted to taste that smile.

Shaking off his reverie, he leaned down and slid his hands beneath the younger man. “Stay still, okay?”

“Yes, taicho.”

Kensei bit back a smile at the dryness of his lieutenant’s tone. Though Shuuhei’s expression was perfectly neutral, the gleam in his dark eyes gave him away. Okay, so maybe he _was_ repeating himself unnecessarily.

“Brat,” he muttered, and was rewarded with a smile—a real smile, not one of those infinitesimal little quirks of his lips that were there and gone so fast that Kensei would miss it if he wasn’t paying attention. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of that crooked grin, and he closed his eyes and drew in a shaking breath. The kid was going to be the death of him.

“The ropes, taicho?” Shuuhei asked, and Kensei opened his eyes, recalled to his task.

Firming his grip on the younger man’s far leg and shoulder, he swiftly flipped him over, then caught hold of one ankle when he saw the long muscles in his thigh flex. “Arch your back—that’ll take some of the pressure off your throat.”

He was treated to a scowl and a glare through a tangled curtain of hair. “Just how flexible do you think I am, taicho?”

He shifted his grip from ankle to beneath Shuuhei’s thighs, exerting just enough pressure that the younger man had no choice but to follow his instruction, and was rewarded this time with a snarled curse—but at least his voice had lost its previous breathy quality.

“I’ve seen you train, Shuuhei. You’re plenty flexible when you need to be,” he said, stifling his grin when the kid cursed at him again, roundly, and with a truly impressive degree of creativity. Hell, his fukutaicho could give members of the 11th lessons. But as entertaining as he found his lieutenant’s display of temper and surprising grasp of invective, he had more pressing matters to attend to. The younger man’s hands had turned an alarming dusky color, his earlier struggles having tightened the cords binding wrist to opposite elbow, and when Kensei touched his fingers, he found them several degrees cooler than they should be.

Amusement vanishing, he reached for Tachikaze with the hand not holding Shuuhei’s legs, patting among the covers blindly for his unsealed zanpakutou—just managing to avoid nicking his fingers with the lethally sharp blade when his searching hand found it laying close to Shuuhei’s far hip. Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, he tightened his grip on the younger man’s thighs.

“Shuuhei, I need you to hold this position until I get your ankles free. If you try to relax, you’re going to pull the rope too tight, and I won’t be able to cut them without cutting you as well. Can you do that for me?”

Shuuhei’s cursing had tapered off when Kensei had moved, his breaths coming in ragged pants that sounded uncomfortably close to muffled sobs, but the Vizard couldn’t tell if he was actually crying or just exhausted by the entire ordeal. A niggling voice that didn’t sound like Tachikaze or his Hollow whispered that this was entirely his own fault, and that he shouldn’t be surprised if his fukutaicho wanted nothing to do with him once he was freed. Ruthlessly suppressing the voice, he focused on Shuuhei.

“Okay.”

The younger man’s voice was so quiet it was nearly a whisper, and Kensei reluctantly slipped his supporting arm out from beneath Shuuhei’s folded legs, hand hovering for a moment to make sure he didn’t relax his position. The long muscles in his thighs quivered, but his legs didn’t move. Kensei worked his fingers between Shuuhei’s ankle and the rope biting into his flesh, grimacing when he saw the deep indentations in the skin beneath the cord, and carefully worked the tip of Tachi’s blade into the narrow space he’d created. The fibers of the rope parted one strand at a time—not enough room between braided silk and vulnerable skin for a quick, clean slice like he’d used on the rest of the rope—but after a few moments the last thread separated at the kiss of cold steel, and one leg was free. Kensei caught his leg before Shuuhei could lower it.

“Not yet. Let me get the other one first, then you can relax.”

It earned him a flash of a glare through the inky tangles of his hair, but his fukutaicho obeyed.

Freeing the other ankle took a fraction longer, as the tension on the rope was now centered unevenly, but soon enough the last strand was cut, and both legs were free. Kensei helped guide them both down to the bed, but held off on massaging them, wanting to wait until the rest of Shuuhei was free.

Cutting away the ropes wrapping his wrists and forearms took less time than he had been expecting; freeing Shuuhei’s ankles had taken the tension off the cords binding his arms, creating enough slack that Kensei was able to make quick work of the ties around his forearms, and though the rope had bit deep into his wrists, the loops securing them to his elbows weren’t nearly as tight. Tachikaze cut easily through the ties, and the rope around Shuuhei’s wrists fell slack. The cord wrapped around the younger man’s neck had been secured to his bound forearms; freeing his arms had taken the tension off the rope around his throat. Kensei set his zanpakutou aside and worked at the remaining tie with his fingers, and immediately saw that the knot had slipped, allowing the silk cord to tighten around Shuuhei’s neck—which it hadn’t been meant to do. Unraveling the knot with shaking hands— _an accident, Shuuhei nearly strangling had been an accident_ —revealed a flaw in the rope itself, which had allowed the knot to slide and hitch into a noose instead of the anchor it was meant to form. It didn’t excuse Lisa’s gross negligence, but at least he knew she hadn’t _deliberately_ bound Shuuhei with a fucking slipknot around his neck.

The knot came free, and he unwound the cord from Shuuhei’s throat, tossing it aside. The younger man sighed deeply, seeming to melt into the mattress. Eyes intent on his fukutaicho’s face—what he could see of it through the messy curtain of his hair—he lifting a gloved hand to his mouth, stripping the soft leather off with his teeth. A single green eye watched him, the iris darkening with interest, and Shuuhei turned his head on the pillow beneath his cheek, blowing irritably at his tangled hair in an attempt to get it out of his face, huffing when the long strands fell back across his eyes. Tossing his first glove aside, Kensei stripped off the second and sent it to join its mate, uncaring where they had fallen, his gaze never leaving Shuuhei’s.

Though his arms were free, his lieutenant hadn’t moved them from the position in which they’d been bound. The silver-haired man reached down and gently unfolded each arm, maneuvering them down to Shuuhei’s sides to the accompaniment of a wince and a hiss. Kneeling up on the mattress beside Shuuhei’s hip, then shifting to straddle the younger man’s thighs, he looked over his fukutaicho’s sprawled out form with critical eyes, allowing his hands to rest lightly just above the other’s narrow hips. Bruises showed vivid and dark against pale skin, the most prominent curling around wrists and lower arms, the back of his neck through the spill of midnight hair, and just below each of Kensei’s hands. His back was relatively unmarked save for a few scars along his shoulder that were white with age; the only other mark marring the smooth skin was a palm-length scar just beside his spine at the center of his back, still showing angry red of a wound only recently healed.

Kensei traced the injury with blunt, gentle fingers. A fraction to the right, and it would have severed the spine—

He leaned down and pressed his mouth to the scar, closing his eyes as he imaged the sword plunging through Shuuhei’s belly at an upward angle, all-too easily picturing the shock and betrayal on the young lieutenant’s face at the moment Tousen’s zanpakutou had pierced his body. Kensei had an almost identical scar, though Tousen had stabbed him in the back. If he laid himself down atop his fukutaicho, the scar on his chest would line up with the one beneath his lips.

“Taicho—”

Kensei’s lips quirked up in a faint smile, though he didn’t lift his head. “Don’t you think it’s time you start calling me by name, Shuuhei?”

He caressed the length of the scar with his mouth, letting his teeth graze the raised, slick tissue gently, earning a soft, throaty moan from the younger man. He’d endured so much, in such a short time—Shuuhei’s strength was such an inherent part of who he was, a facet of his being that set Kensei’s blood to simmering in his veins, his heart aching with a mixture of pride and joy and no little sorrow for all that his fukutaicho had endured.

“Tai— _Kensei_!”

The sound of his name cried out in that rasping, broken voice had his hands clenching tight on narrow hips, a shudder of pleasure shivering down his spine.

His mouth moved lower, his body sliding down to rest between eagerly parted thighs. He kept his touch purposefully light, smoothing over soft skin even as his lips tasted bounty of flesh offered up to him. A deep, rumbling groan vibrated in his chest as his hands spread over the perfect rise of Shuuhei’s ass, muscled and tight and only faintly marked by the ropes. His mouth traced each reddened line, thumbs stroking down the center, spreading him open. Shuuhei’s hips rose sharply at the touch, a quiet, muffled sob of pleasure nearly lost to the pillows as the younger man buried his face into downy softness to stifle the sounds.

“I want to hear you, Shuuhei,” he growled, voice dark and thick with erotic threat, even as he dipped his head once more, hands holding Shuuhei firmly open, and licked a hot stripe over the tightly furled opening he found there, pink and untouched and all his now.

Shuuhei _wailed_ , head tossing back to cry out his shocked pleasure. His hands were clenched in the bedding, legs spreading in an unconscious demand for more, and Kensei caught a glimpse of wide, almost feral eyes peering back at him over one shoulder before his lover closed his eyes and bowed his head, canting his hips in a wordless plea for more.

Kensei gave it to him.

Settling himself more comfortable between Shuuhei’s sleek legs, he snaked his arms under the younger man’s thighs to hold him in place. Dipping his head, he teasingly lapped at the musky, clean skin all around his lover’s hole, fluttering around the edges of his rim but avoiding the center. Shuuhei sobbed into the covers, hips twisting, trying to push back, trying to get closer, but Kensei held him in place, teasing him with kitten licks everywhere but where Shuuhei wanted it most. He could feel the younger man shaking beneath him, dipped his head to lap at the smooth stretch of his perineum, tilting his head and sealing his mouth against the tender skin, sucking hard.

Shuuhei came apart then, moaning and begging and bucking against the hands holding him down, his voice a ragged litany of inarticulate pleas that had Kensei rutting against the mattress in a desperate attempt to take some of the pressure off his aching cock. He’d underestimated the effect Shuuhei’s pleasure would have on his own self-control; he’d wanted to take this slow, worship every inch of skin laid out before him, for hours if need be, and only when Shuuhei was reduced to a hot, whimpering mess beneath him would he finally allow himself the pleasure of sliding deep into his fukutaicho’s heat.

Shuuhei deserved slow and thorough for his first time, especially after what he’d just been forced to endure.

Hot green eyes met his, Shuuhei twisting his head around to _glare_ down at his captain. He was panting, cheek flushed dark with arousal, hair clinging damply to his neck and a strand had caught on plush, bitten-red lips, and he was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Kensei had ever seen. Shy, blushing Shuuhei had vanished beneath the weight of frustrated desire.

“Kensei, if you don’t fuck me right now, I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

The threat was delivered in a low growl, but Kensei caught a fleeting glimpse of uncertainty in the younger man’s eyes, telling him that Shuuhei wasn’t nearly as confident as he was trying to appear.

Kensei slid upwards, blanketing Shuuhei’s leaner frame with his own; they were of a height—Shuuhei was a bare inch taller, perhaps—but the captain was more heavily muscled. He snaked his arms under Shuuhei, wrapping the younger man up in an embrace, rubbing his nose affectionately behind one delicate ear and pressing a tender kiss to the vulnerable hollow he found there. Shuuhei shivered at the touch, folding his arms over his captain’s, and allowed himself to be held.

“We’ve got all the time in the world, Shuuhei. And as much as I want inside you, want to claim you in every manner possible, I don’t want to rush either. You deserve better than a quick fuck with a bunch of voyeuristic idiots listening to us out in the hall—,” Kensei smiled grimly when Shuuhei’s head shot up, wide green eyes flicking from his face to the door, a hot, embarrassed flush suffusing his face as he recalled the noises he’d made, and how loud he’d been, but the older man merely tucked him closer to his body, nuzzling the soft hair at his temple—and putting his mouth against Shuuhei’s ear. “I love the noises you make for me, Shuuhei, and when we’re alone in the privacy of our quarters, you can be as loud as you like. The walls in the division are completely soundproof, so no one will hear the sounds I will pull from your throat, late at night when it’s just the two of us and I spread you out across my bed.”

Shuuhei bit his lip to hold back a moan, eyes darkening to a shade of green closer to black, and Kensei chuckled quietly, lifting one hand to his fukutaicho’s cheek and nudging his face around so he could capture his lips in a slow, drugging kiss. His other hand slid down the long line of Shuuhei’s torso, closing calloused fingers loosely around the steel-hard length of his lover’s cock, stroking slowly as he swallowed down breathy moans. Pressing his own cloth-covered arousal against Shuuhei’s naked ass, he rutted unhurriedly against the lean body in his arms, clamping down on the urge to press his lover face-down on the mattress and take him fast and rough.

Drawing away from Shuuhei’s mouth so they could both breathe, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against Shuuhei’s temple, struggling to keep himself under control.

“Kensei?”

“Shh—it’s alright, Shuuhei. Just give me a minute. You’ve no idea what you do to me, how hard it is to control myself around you.” He drew back slightly, but kept his arms around the younger man, and spotted the bottle of lube sitting on the night table. He really should leave well enough alone, wait till he got Shuuhei back to Soul Society and the privacy of their quarters, but it would be cruel to just leave his fukutaicho hanging, and his own need was a little too sharp to ignore. There were plenty of things he could do to take the edge off without resorting to actual sex, and he had a feeling Shuuhei would be amiable to a little experimentation.

He leaned over to snag the bottle, arm tightening around Shuuhei’s waist to keep him in place, and dropped it on the bed beside them.

“Do you think you can be quiet for me, Shuuhei?” he asked softly, his mouth close to the younger man’s ear. Shuuhei started to nod eagerly, then paused, turning his head to meet Kensei’s gaze. A wicked glint shone in his eyes for just a second, then long lashes swept down to veil his gaze.

“You could always use the gag Yadomaru-san so thoughtfully provided, taicho,” he murmured, lips curling up into a tiny, teasing smirk that had Kensei cursing inwardly. Damned brat was trying to kill him, he really was.

“Maybe another time, brat. Though I’d rather fill your mouth with my cock and feel you moaning around me as I fuck your tight little throat.” The bluntness of his words elicited a shiver and a loud moan that the younger man didn’t even try to muffle, and Kensei grinned against Shuuhei’s temple at the depth of his fukutaicho’s reaction. “Shh—quiet, Shuuhei. We’ll see how much of me you can take later, once we’re home and have more privacy. Right now I have something else in mind.”

Shuuhei nodded, hips undulating languidly against him, and Kensei laughed softly as he drew away to a disappointed mewl. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned down to untie his boots, toeing them off and moving them out of the way. He could feel Shuuhei’s eyes on him, and when he stood, he met and held his lover’s hungry gaze, taking hold of the hem of his shirt and inching it upwards in a slow tease, revealing a deeply ridged belly and the broad swell of his chest, the starkly etched numbers at the top of his abdomen that were a perfect match to the ones inked on his fukutaicho’s face. Shuuhei’s eyes roved over him slowly, hot and appreciative, and Kensei bit back a groan as liquid heat rolled through his veins. He’d never before had anyone look at him the way Shuuhei was looking at him right then; his lover was gazing up at him with an expression that was both predatory and possessive, but there was a wealth of tenderness there too, like he was looking upon something to be treasured.

With a jolt, he realized that Shuuhei was looking at him the way he looked at Shuuhei.

The realization shook him, straight down to his core, and he felt his face heat beneath the weight of his fukutaicho’s stare and the knowledge that someone—that _Shuuhei_ —could feel that way about _him._ He wanted to avert his gaze, but at the same time he wanted Shuuhei to see that he got it, that he understood and not only accepted the younger man’s feelings, but that he was deeply affected and shared them as well.

His hand shook when he reached down to unfasten the button of his cargo pants, steadied though as he pulled down the zipper, the ‘burr’ of it parting very loud in the silence that lay over the room. He pushed the light colored cotton off his hips, watching as Shuuhei’s gaze dipped down—smiled faintly when the younger man noted the absence of undergarments and swallowed hard in reaction—and allowed them to fall, stepping free once they’d hit the floor. Still holding Shuuhei’s gaze, he bent to strip off his socks and straightened slowly, allowing his lover to look his fill.

The heat in Shuuhei’s eyes was gratifying, the weight of his gaze an almost tangible caress against his naked skin.

“Fuck, taicho, you’re fucking beautiful.” The reverence in his brat’s voice had heat crawling through his veins, spreading up his chest and throat and burning in his face. He tried for a grin, felt it wobble dangerously, and let it die. Kneeling back up on the bed, he drew Shuuhei back into his arms, their bodies slotting together perfectly.

“Kensei, Shuuhei. I told you to call me Kensei,” he murmured, sliding one hand into ruffled hair, angling Shuuhei’s head to one side so he could drink his mouth down deep. The taste of the younger man was addictive; especially now that he knew he could kiss him anytime he wanted. Shuuhei pressed closer, moaning quietly into his mouth, and Kensei reluctantly pulled away, settling his hands on his lover’s slim hips, gazing down at him with somber eyes.

His front was more heavily bruised than his back, the marks left by his bindings would show clearly once Shuuhei was back in his usual uniform. He didn’t know if his fukutaicho even owned a long-sleeved kosode, but if they didn’t want a lot of questions and raised eyebrows once back in the Gotei, Kensei was going to have to dig one up from the stores. He knew Shuuhei well enough by now to understand that his lieutenant wouldn’t appreciate the speculation and gossip that would be aimed his way if he walked around marked up like he was, and Kensei would do whatever he could to prevent that from happening.

“Kensei? What’s wrong?” Shuuhei asked quietly, when Kensei had been quiet for too long, but instead of answering the older man mustered up a smile.

“Nothing, just appreciating the view is all,” he replied, trying for lecherous, but falling short if the lack of an answering smile was any indication. Shuuhei’s head bowed, looking down at himself, and when he raised his eyes back to his captain’s face, his expression was difficult to decipher.

“They’ll fade. Urahara-san is a generous host; a soak in the springs beneath the shouten will clear them right up,” he said, correctly interpreting the reason behind Kensei’s pensive mood, his voice gentle. There was something fragile in his expression though, an uncertainty that Kensei hadn’t meant to stir.

“I hate seeing you hurt, Shuuhei, especially when it was my fault that they did this to you. If I hadn’t—”

Shuuhei laid his fingers over the older man’s mouth. “It’s not your fault. They were just trying to help you, and didn’t mean any harm. Yeah, I’m still pretty pissed, and embarrassed as all hell, but I’ll get over it. So stop blaming yourself.”

Shuuhei pulled his hand away, leaning in to kiss him deeply, and Kensei groaned into his mouth, gathering his lover closer as he deepened the kiss, resolving to stop thinking so much and simply enjoy having Shuuhei in his arms at last. Breaking away, he reached for the bottle that he’d tossed on the bed earlier, fumbling it open with one hand while the other combed Shuuhei’s hair out of his face.

“Turn around, Shuuhei,” he ordered softly, and was rewarded with a faint smile before the younger man did as he was asked, shuffling around on his knees until he was in the requested position. Drizzling a healthy amount of liquid in his palm before snapping the cap closed, he tossed the bottle aside, then rubbed his hands together to spread the slick fluid and warm it. He reached down and coated himself generously, wiping one hand on the covers to clean it off, then pulled Shuuhei back against his chest, arranging the younger man so his legs were pressed together and Kensei’s knees bracketed his lover’s. Shuuhei made a sound that was halfway between a contented purr and a throaty moan, and Kensei pressed a quick kiss to his hair, reaching down between their bodies to guide himself between the tight clasp of sleekly muscled thighs, smiling as a sound that was _all_ purring approval left his lover’s throat. Tugging Shuuhei more closely to his chest, he reached around and grasped Shuuhei’s length with the hand still slick with lube, curling his other arm around Shuuhei’s waist to keep him in place.

He thrust between Shuuhei’s thighs, pressing them more tightly together with his own legs, and stroked his lover’s cock slowly, setting up a leisurely pace he knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain for very long. His lieutenant turned his face into the curve of his throat, muffling an almost continuous stream of moans and whimpers, his hips rocking into Kensei’s fist, then grinding back against the broad form behind him, the added friction sparking along the older man’s nerve endings.

His strokes sped up as lightning danced along his spine, heat pooling low and tight in his belly after an almost embarrassingly short amount of time, and he loosed the arm around Shuuhei’s waist to cup his lover’s jaw, turning his face up so he could devour his mouth. One of Shuuhei’s hands fell to Kensei’s thigh, gripping tightly as he rode his lover’s fist, he lifted the other arm and draped it back around Kensei’s neck, his fingers clenching in the short hairs at his nape. Kensei dropped his free hand down to Shuuhei’s chest, the edge of his thumbnail teasing at the hardened bud of a wine-dark nipple, then pinched it hard between his index and middle fingers.

Shuuhei tore his mouth free on a long, wordless cry, his body arching in climax. Kensei rutted desperately between his lover’s thighs, chasing his own release even as he stroked Shuuhei through the shockwaves of his orgasm, and his muscles locked tight as his brain seized in a burst of white fire that blotted out his vision and seemed like it would go on and on without end.

After what seemed minutes, he came back to himself, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue and his teeth buried deep in Shuuhei’s nape. Eyes widening in realization, he hurried let go of his lover’s neck, wincing at the deep, bloody imprint he’d left behind. His hand and softening cock were sticky with cum, both his own and Shuuhei’s, and he hastily wiped his fingers clean on the bedding, then turned Shuuhei’s face to his.

He needn’t have worried.

His lover’s expression was blissed out, eyes dazed and a smile playing over the corners of his mouth that widened as Shuuhei met his worried gaze.

“That was—yeah. I have nothing. Can I just curl up here and take a nap now? I think my brain melted out of my ears back there.”

Kensei snorted his amusement, his concern receding in the face of his lover acting all loopy from orgasm. Fucked-out was a very good look on the younger man, and Kensei resolved right then and there to make him look like that as often as possible.

“Sorry I bit you,” he murmured, and Shuuhei shrugged, leaning back against his chest.

“’s alright. Liked it. Kinda made me come a second time,” he said lazily, and Kensei laughed, wrapping a supportive arm around his waist and just holding him close. He nosed at Shuuhei’s hair, pressing his lips to his temple, and simply drank in the peaceful moment and lingering echoes of pleasure reverberating through him. Shuuhei shifted against him, pulling away, but returned to his former position a moment later. Kensei opened his eyes, wondering what his lover was up to, and blinked down at the bowed head in surprise. Shuuhei had picked up a short length of the dark green rope that was still lying among the tangled covers and was busy twisting it around his wrist.

“What are you doing?” Kensei asked, and Shuuhei shoved his arm beneath Kensei’s nose in lieu of a reply.

“Could you tie this for me? I can’t do it one-handed,” he said instead, and Kensei grasped his hand and drew it down to a more convenient level, a bemused smile flitting over his mouth as he obeyed his lover’s request.

“Why?”

Shuuhei admired his captain’s handiwork for a moment, then looked up at his lover with a small smile that turned his eyes to sunlit jade.

“Because you bought it for me, Kensei, and I want a permanent reminder of today.”

Kensei smiled and caught his lover’s hand, bringing his braceleted wrist to his lips and pressing a kiss to the twist of cord, then the very tips of Shuuhei’s fingers, eyes warm and soft on his lover’s face.

“We’ll have plenty of time to create memories, Shuuhei, but yeah, this is a good start.”

Shuuhei laughed, cupped his captain’s face, and kissed him deeply.

They had all the time in the world.

 

 

 


End file.
